


Tangled Apart

by debunker



Series: The Binary Code [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Deductions, Drug Use, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, I don't hate Mary sorry, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mary's Past, Moriarty's past, Multi, No JohnLock sorry, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Pretty much all kinds of sex, Seriously not on the side of the angels, Sheriarty - Freeform, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock's always on a mission, Vaginal Sex, What's happening in London while Sherlock is away, World Travel, consulting boyfriends, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debunker/pseuds/debunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel to Seal the Deal.<br/>Things that happened between Moriarty and Sherlock in those two years when Sherlock was away from London.<br/>Spanning the period between S2 and S3.</p><p>“I can’t think straight when you are close.”<br/>“Then think gay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.Greece

Sherlock is coming out from the shower with just a towel around his hips. The afternoon air is so hot that the water drops on his body now touched with a tender tan dry in an instant without making him shudder. A July in Greece is hard to bear after London cool weather but the smell of oranges and cypresses and overheated stones coming from the street compensates for the inconvenience. He crosses the wooden floor heading towards the bed to get dressed. There is another step of his mission to be completed tonight. Mycroft has assigned him this hoping to lift him up a little bit as his last Norwegian mission was almost a total flop due to Sherlock’s distraction and partial depression following the events of his Richard Brook period.

Mycroft is unaware of the fact that Sherlock knows that Moriarty is still alive. He has got a couple of messages from him and was waiting for him to appear sooner or later considering his hints. But anyway he is surprised to see him like that sitting lazily in his armchair facing the terrace, his raven hair slicked back as usual. Though no poshy suit which would be really awkward considering the temperature and the location. A linen shirt with rolled up sleeves, light blue trousers and mocassins. He could pass for a vacationing Italian if only his face were not so stiff. He is pale as usual so this means he has just arrived. The upper buttons of his shirt are left open and Sherlock cannot help but stare at his neck for a moment. Moriarty is keeping one hand in the pocket of his trousers and Sherlock wonders whether he has a gun in it. He feels profoundly fragile right now, standing there with only his towel on, it would certainly take him more than a second to grab his gun now lying on the night table. He wonders whether Moriarty has already unloaded it.

“Why are you here? Weren’t you dead on the rooftop?” Sherlock is trying to act as if nothing dangerous were happening. If only he could get closer to his gun.

“Staying dead was not part of my plan.” Moriarty extracts lazily his hand with a gun from his pocket and puts it across his lap. “Not without you, my dear, in any case.” He sizes Sherlock up and his eyes are full of shadowy appreciation. He is visibly relaxed but Sherlock knows there is more than this superficial calm.

“So you came to kill me.” Sherlock is trying to sound cold-blooded but he is afraid underneath. The threat makes him do provocative things. He knows Moriarty won’t let them escape him.

So he takes a step closer to stand right in front of Moriarty’s, his navel is aligned with Jim’s face now.

Moriarty studies him from a short distance for a minute. His gaze lingers on the lighter strip of skin starting right above the edge of Sherlock’s towel, this is there his swimming trunks must have sit.

He reaches out as if intended to take off Sherlock’s cover but then jerks his hand back.

“Oh, well, I see the game you want to play.” He shifts a little his legs and Sherlock wonders whether it is because he has felt something. “But this is not new to me any longer.” He looks away bored.

“I didn’t sleep with you, that was Richard Brook.” Sherlock inhales half-offended by Moriarty’s indifference, half-relieved.

“Sorry to disappoint you we are the same person. Big scoop.” Moriarty pulls a shocked face.

“I did this for the case.” Sherlock crosses his arms.

“To drive me mad and suicidal? Did you even believe in this crap or did you just want to have some fun with me?” Moriarty grins at him cheekily.

“What was your intention? To try and live a quiet life as Richard Brook? Criminal life is not for you anymore?” Sherlock chooses to ignore his question as the memories of their “fun” cross his mind and he is not sure this is the right moment as his nipples suddenly stand hard pushing against his arms.

“This is the only thing that is for me in this world. And I believe this could become the one for you too.” Moriarty stands up and Sherlock is lashed around with his scent, it penetrates his very brain, the hidden corners of it where desire and excitement are locked up successfully. Well, until Jim comes around.

“Come with me, Sherlock, you’ll never be bored. You will have all the greatest secrets to deduce and use your knowledge. Money, power, constant thrill and danger, no annoying Big Brother. Isn’t it what you are looking for?” Moriarty traces a line along Sherlock’s forearm with the tip of his gun.

“And what are you gaining from that?” Sherlock tries to stay still but he feels the adrenaline level growing and the familiar light dizziness of arousal crawls over him.

“More clients, more power, you. We will have so many games to play.” Moriarty takes off the gun and puts it in his left pocket. Sherlock can’t help but look down at his crotch.

“Did not you want to destroy me? At any cost?”

“I am not willing to die, Sherlock, if I’m not annoyed. As long as there is something big on my way I want to stay alive.” Moriarty catches his gaze and straightens his shoulders offering him a better view.

“Why would I want to accept your offer?” Sherlock forces himself to stop staring at Moriarty and finds it extremely hard. There is something strangely exciting in seeing Jim this relaxed, the thin fabric of his shirt not exactly clinging to his body. Moriarty is looking at him as if trying to decide whether he wants to kill him right now. But instead he chooses to get closer to let his words go right into Sherlock’s ear.

“I know your pressure points. I know where I should put my tongue, my fingers or my dick to make you lose your mind, I remember too well the way you were when we were making out. Don’t try to tell me you were acting in those moments. Because I could do all this again to you and see how you would react now that you don’t have to pretend. Tell me would you like me to touch you?” Moriarty’s fingers stop a mere inch away from Sherlock’s bare chest, the tips caress slightly the air. It takes all Sherlock’s autocontrol to resist this. He hates the way his body reacts to Moriarty’s proximity, he hates it he wants to kiss him immediately, close the door, shut the windowblinds, turn off the cell phone, close his eyes and feel their bodies connect, stuck into each other in a tantalizing rocking. All he wants is the rhythm bringing him to the climax, the smell, the taste, the sound of his ex-lover. But instead he just stands there immovable and ignores the weakening warmth spreading across his thighs and crawling up his stomach, over the towel wrapped around his hips. Keeping his eyes open he imagines Moriarty’s hands stripping him of this last barrier between them, stroking his skin. He would surrender at once, he would, if only Moriarty made a step closer. But he doesn’t. Moriarty senses the inner struggle and steps back. Sherlock startles almost disappointed. He looks into Moriarty’s tired eyes. There is something spent in them. A slightest hint of sorrow. Moriarty nods silently to his own thoughts.

“I am staying here for now.” Sherlock is firm as he feels he might be safe.

“Sure.” Jim sounds a little tired. “You fit in beautifully here. Like one of those statues around.”

“I’m sorry but I should be going.” Sherlock finds it ridiculous but a polite “fuck-off” is somehow his only weapon.

“Okay, I see. I’ll give you some time to think it over. But you better be quick.”

He casts him a long glance and walks away silently. Sherlock is almost tempted to reach him, stop him, make him stay, make him… simply make him. But he wouldn’t. Not now.


	2. 2. Thailand

There is a sudden knock at the door which makes Sherlock perk his ears. He is the perfect picture of a sleuth in any sense. This cannot be a good sign as it’s past 1 a.m. and it’s pouring outside as it often does during the rain season here in Thailand where Mycroft has sent him shortly after Moriarty’s visit to his Greek house. All the lights are off, it’s only Sherlock’s open laptop which casts a  bluish reflection over his table. This time the place he stays in is protected by a surveillance system. Mycroft should have sensed something. Sherlock is not sure how much he really knows but he suspects there is a better reason for these extra measures besides Sherlock’s obvious security.

Sherlock approaches the door holding his gun which he now keeps close to his body at any time of the day following the incident with Moriarty. He grips the lock turning it ready to fire at any second. He flings the door open and stares in the darkness filled with the noise of the downpour. The silhouette of the man standing in front of him cannot be mistaken. Jim is paying a visit. Again. His pale face is gleaming in the rain.

“Won’t you let me come in?” He asks soaked to his bones. He did not bother to bring an umbrella or a raincoat and is only wearing a light shirt and trousers now completely damp. Sherlock cannot see any pockets on him where he could be hiding a gun or a knife and the whole picture of Moriarty with his wet hair clinging to his face and the wet clothes hugging his form start a stirring deep inside Sherlock.

“Please.” He could close the door or shoot him and hide the body in the jungle but it would not give him the thrill he feels when he slowly lets Jim in and closes the door behind him.

Moriarty brings in the smell of a wet forest and the watermelon freshness of the rain. Sherlock steps behind him and pushes the gun against the back of his head.

“Easy.” Moriarty lifts his hands up but his voice is mocking.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock grips his gun tighter prepared to fire it if needed.

“I did not get your answer yet. You keep ignoring my messages. Is this your way to make me pay you a visit?” He tries to turn his head back to see Sherlock but is stopped by a harder push of the barrel against his dripping hair.

Sherlock steps closer to go through Jim’s pockets. He passes his hand over his chest and waist checking, the contact with Jim’s skin so undeniable through the damp clothes makes him startle.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Jim cocks his head back gliding it against the barrel, “please, check thoroughly. Don’t miss a spot.” Sherlock feels his heart rate paces up and he hates himself for his inability to control his reactions. Stupid transport. Finally he finishes and lowers his gun allowing Moriarty to turn around and look at him. There is a little poodle forming at Moriarty’s feet. His shoes are completely damp as well.

“Are you done now?” Moriarty looks at him ironically.

“How did you get in? The house is protected.”

“Was.” Jim manages to keep his nonchalant look despite the streams of water running down his limbs. “Jim from IT, remember?”

“Hacked Mycroft’s system?” Sherlock chuckles appreciatively. Mycroft must be pissed. What are the chances he could send his dogs immediately to check on Sherlock?

“He won’t know about the break in, I’ve looped the images, there will be no pauses.” Jim is clearly pleased with himself. Sherlock tries not to show he is impressed and delighted imagining Mycroft totally oblivious to this little trick.

“You see what I’m doing to have your answer. Don’t make me wait any longer.” Jim studies the room around them. Few things and bamboo furniture. Too exotic for Sherlock who is wearing a moss green t shirt and pajama pants. His hair is longer now and there is a strange sad expression in his eyes. He must be suffering this forced solitude.

“I need to know more about you.” Sherlock pauses with his eyes locked with Moriarty’s dark eyes shimmering in the night. “Tell me about your past.”

“Go ahead and deduce me. Already off game?” Jim grimaces stretching his lips.

“I might make you speak.” Sherlock looks meaningfully at his slim body. He sees its curves and hollows, the outline of his shoulders and chest makes him feel like he slows down, like everything is happening in a dream.

“Using your brother’s methods? Is it a family hobby?” Moriarty’s face is insolent and dark. Sherlock shivers mentally thinking of what they might have put Jim through.

“I have my own methods.” Sherlock leans in closer so that his cheek almost touches Moriarty’s. Jim gives him a scanning look from the bottom to the top and his gaze stops at Sherlock’s lips. He lifts his hand and brushes his fingertips across Sherlock’s mouth. Their eyes meet and Sherlock sees a sheer fascination written on Jim’s face.

“Undress me.” Sherlock feels the air is not getting to his lungs, he is on the verge of a collapse. “Now.” Jim’s low voice commanding him like that sends him delirious. He doesn’t know how it happens but the next moment he feels Jim’s wet clothes under his palms. He is reluctant to leave his gun but cannot struggle with the buttons of Jim’s shirt and makes him lift his arms to drag it over his head and toss it to the floor. And then they stand there panting, Sherlock a little bit more off balance. He feels like he could stop himself from this, prevent this, push Moriarty back into the rain, close this door and never open it, but he knows he does not want to. He makes his fingers slide up Jim’s chest remembering the sensation of his skin under his hands. How much time passed since their last time? About three months. He would never say he could be this desperate for Moriarty’s touch. But he is. Jim slowly grabs the waistband of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms and pulls him close so that their bodies touch and the contact is like a short circuit in Sherlock’s brain. Their mouths meet and the whole burden of the past months falls off Sherlock. He feels incredibly light and heavy at the same time, overloaded with his own blood, pumping in his ears.  Something must have gone wrong and his system is glithching. He cannot explain it otherwise. His hard drive is out of order making him push Moriarty towards the bed dragging his own body in the same direction. Moriarty tosses his shoes half way and now they are both barefoot. Sherlock cannot let him lie on the bed in his soaked trousers and so he strips them off together with Jim’s underwear falling on top of him while Jim is kicking his clothes off his ankles. Moriarty’s body under him is lean and cool, still to be dried and heated up. Sherlock is kissing him chaotically feeling Moriarty’s heart hammering in his chest.

“Will you toss your gun at last?” Moriarty’s panting and his hands are all over Sherlock’s body, passing through his hair, pulling up his t shirt, grabbing his arse.

Sherlock lets it fall down on the floor with a muffled knock. He gets rid of his t shirt helped by Jim’s hands kissing him hungrily. Then he takes off his pajama bottoms and pants jumping up on the bed and falling down again on his knees towering over Jim’s body spread under him, his erection full and proud. Moriarty lets his eyes follow the length of his body and he props himself up to grab Sherlock’s erection and give him a few strokes making him breathe shakily.  Sherlock in his turn takes Moriarty’s cock in his hand and follows his pace.

“Oh, I missed that.” Jim’s voice is low and thick. He watches their hands move falling into a steady rhythm and feels pleasure unfolding over his stomach, spreading deep into his groin, crossing its straps behind his lower back. His whole being is slave to the only desire to rock, to push, to get off. Sherlock crawls over Jim to straddle him, to sink down slowly grinding his teeth in a mix of pleasure and discomfort. Before he starts moving guided by Moriarty’s hands on his hips he leans down to kiss Jim, their heated breaths blend and Sherlock is amazed at Jim’s intense expression.

“Come with me, Sherlock.” His voice is passionate, intimate, longing.

“Make me.” Sherlock sucks his tongue urging Jim to thrust into him.

“How can I resist.” Panting Moriarty starts going quicker.

 Sherlock is glad to know Mycroft cannot hear them this time.

 


	3. 3. Still Thailand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sex. You can't blame them though.  
> So sex... and deductions.

Jim is dozing at his side but Sherlock is extremely awake, processing everything that’s happening right now. He feels like his body now satiated finally relieves his aching mind and opens its abandoned resources. He despises the need to rest. If he could he would never fall asleep, would never waist precious time for such a dull thing. He feels acutely alive, renewed. The rain does not seem to stop. Jim turns his head to him and mumbles with his eyes still shut, his voice is sleepy.

“So? Made your decision? Thought it over?”

Sherlock looks at him sharply, imprinting the image of Moriarty’s naked body spread lazily across the sheets.

“I can’t think straight when you are close.”

“Then think gay.” Jim’s warm fingers crawl over his stomach tracing a circle around his belly button and going down teasingly in light strokes.

“Tell me about yourself. I need more data.” Sherlock grabs Jim’s hand to stop it and plays with his fingers.

“I’ve already told you: you should deduce me.” Moriarty takes an extra pillow and pushes his chin on top of it to see Sherlock better while he studies Jim attentively.

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re doing it now. You must have been examining me since our first meeting. Remember?”

Sherlock pauses a second and then a stream of words start running.

“You wear your expensive clothes with a slight depreciation to show you are not attached to money which you now have but it has not always been like this. You don’t care about appearing posh which you are not and this means you are clever and see yourself as you are, though you are vain. It is clear from the way you comb you hair, how you keep your shoes and your nails. Your skin betrays the traits of malnutrition and past continuous medication which possibly has made you immune to cocaine which you regularly use but it doesn’t lead you into addiction so your tolerance level must be elevated. You are naturally lean but have some extra fat around your waist which means you are not exercising right now mostly because you don’t need to defend yourself. Although you could do this judging by your shoulder and arms. Considering your extreme ability to tolerate pain I’d say you have been into boxing, lightweight obviously, would be suitable as well to control your rage which has been your curse since the very young age. Maybe that was the reason why your mother gave you up for adoption. Or maybe that was the consequence.  But your knuckles are not ruined completely which means you did not do it professionally but only to stand up for yourself. Probably in a foster house, hardly a family. In a teenage period you should have used your fists often enough to be respected in the environment you had found yourself in and have your first subordinates let’s say. At the same period you must have had your first sexual experiences, which progressively became more and more numerous, judging by your style and appetite your libido has always been quite high. I only hope that your taste for fighting is not related to any non-consensual actions. I hope they did not hurt you.” Suddenly there is a concern in Sherlock’s voice and he touches Jim’s cheek softly feeling how he leans into the touch.

“Sherlock, I only like first class things.” Jim gives him a meaningful look. “They are hard to find.” He passes his hand with appreciation across Sherlock’s trim stomach grinning with satisfaction as Sherlock moves closer pulling him into a kiss. “And no, I was not hurt. No one would dare touching me.” There is a slight menace in his eyes.

“I did.” Sherlock finds it hard to believe his own words but the fact is he is in bed with Jim Moriarty. He looks at himself as if detached planting light kisses along his lover’s spine, starting from the back of his head and going down. Jim’s skin tastes familiar, it is warm and dry now. Sherlock kisses slowly his shoulder blades and feels Jim’s muscles relaxing underneath.

“Did I miss anything?” Sherlock’s voice echoes between Jim’s ribs who chuckles against the pillow arching his back encouraging Sherlock to continue.

“Lots of things.”

“I am sure I have it all in my mind. Sooner or later I will finish this puzzle.”

“I can hear you thinking. I’d like to open your head, split your skull and look at your brain. Must be gorgeous.” Sherlock freezes for a second in a sudden animal fear imagining the scene but at the same time he feels the undeniable arousal. Thanatos and eros.

“You need to be treated.”

“I’ve been in treatment before. Many years ago.” Moriarty’s voice is sleepy but when Sherlock plants a light kiss on the small of his back he seems to wake up. He turns his head back to watch Sherlock pull aside the sheet and reveal Moriarty’s fresh arse. He looks at it appreciatively for a moment and then gives it a playful bite which makes Moriarty startle.

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“This?” Sherlock asks innocently and gives him another bite and then a lick over the bitten spot. His hands caress and squeeze the sides of Moriarty’s arse cheeks.

“Mmmmhhh.” Moriarty shifts his position to adjust to Sherlock’s weight above him. “You know what this makes to me. This is not a fairplay. You can’t make me talk with se…” his breath breaks when Sherlock’s tongue gets between his buttocks. The sensation of the wet cunning tip touching his hole sends a wave of weakening arousal long his spine and pinches his cock, piercing through it. “Sex…” he exhales and has to push his face against the pillows as Sherlock gets more insistent and licks him harder spreading him and pulling him closer. It gives him a sensation of power, control over Moriarty’s body which is so amenable right now. Moriarty can’t resist the stimulation and breaths heavily burying his head into the bed.

“Continue. Tell me how it was.” Sherlock blows lightly at the wet hole and his drying saliva makes Moriarty shiver harder and produce sounds which make Sherlock’s cock twitch in anticipation. He spreads Moriarty’s buttocks further apart and breaths hotly against the crack.

“Bastard,” Moriarty moans clearly pleased, he lifts his head and takes a gulp of air. “I was put in a facility.” Another teasing lick. “Aaaa-ah asylum.”

“Oh.” Sherlock pushes the tip of his tongue inside Moriarty. Just to give him a taste of what he could do further on, to make him tell his story quicker and pass to do other things.

Moriarty groans audibly and pushes desperately against Sherlock’s mouth who keeps him still controlling the depth of penetration.

“They’ve put me in a padded cell. Thought I was going to hurt myself. Stupid doctors.” He feels blood coming to his head and his opening gets looser as Sherlock keeps teasing it just enough to make him want more. “Left me in the darkness, it was cold, a only had a pajama on. No light, no sounds, just a small room.” He is gratified with generous licks. He feels his flesh melts and opens, the slick rim pulses and he rubs himself against the bed feeling his erection getting hot and hard.

“Did they put you in a straightjacket?” Sherlock trails his fingers over the pulsing point spreading some his saliva as lube over it, pushing inside gently.

“Sherlock, what century do you live in?” Moriarty manages to chuckle but is immediately silenced by Sherlock’s body lying on top of him and the tip of his cock brushing against Moriarty’s arse. He closes his eyes and surrenders to Sherlock’s stimulation, his fingertips brushing insistently against his entrance. He can’t help gasping when Sherlock takes him slowly, making his way inside biting Moriarty’s ears and neck. When the fuller part of Sherlock’s cock pushes inside him Moriarty swallows with difficulty and he feels his balls tighten and he opens his legs further letting Sherlock lie comfortably between them. He feels Sherlock’s heartbeat against his back, his own heart pumps heavily and he feels the fire starting in his taint. When Sherlock gets completely inside he stops to caress Jim.

“Tell me more,” he whispers over his ear, hot and low, “how did it feel”, Moriarty whimpers a little when Sherlock pulls back and snaps forward again starting to move, “how was it”, another hot push, “staying in darkness”. Sherlock props himself up with the hands and starts thrusting quicker, his thighs slap Moriarty’s arse with a cheerful dirty sound.

“First make me come,” Moriarty’s voice is muffled as his head is pressed against the bed. His face is a grimace of acute pleasure, his mouth forms a shaken O each time Sherlock pushes inside him but he doesn’t want him to know that what he is doing makes him feel so high. He closes his eyes and sees darkness again. But he is hot and naked now and he is not alone.


	4. 4. Belgium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you here?”
> 
> “Missed you. Did you miss me?”
> 
> “I am not going to answer this question.”

Chapter 4. BELGIUM

 

Sherlock takes a break and a glass of champaign from a passing waiter. He is on a mission in Brusseles where Mycroft has sent him right after the mission in Thailand which got sabotaged and almost ended in Sherlock’s accidental destruction due to the leaked data. Mycroft thought that assigning him a calmer and more surveilled place somewhere closer to London would be a great idea mostly for Mycroft’s needs. Sherlock seemed pretty impassive and detached and Mycroft wondered why.

“Aren’t you tired of dancing? That lady was clinging to you too tight.” A sudden sound of _the voice_ makes Sherlock swallow his sip faster than he would normally do. An elegant shadow appears at his side holding a glass as well. Hardly got an invitation.

“Jealous?”

“Pissed?” Moriarty is studying Sherlock’s appearance with satisfaction, clad in a chic tuxedo just like Sherlock. When his eye falls on Sherlock’s trousers Jim draws his cheeks slightly in. From the movement of his mouth Sherlock knows right away what he thinks about it.

“Obviously. Not a nice way to say goodbye, just leave me there sleeping.” There is a sour note in his words. Moriarty wonders how much it all means to Sherlock.

“Honey, had to rush, sorry. Could not keep those images looped forever.”

“Stole data from my pc as well.” Sherlock is talking to him without turning his head into Jim’s direction and scanning the crowd.

“Nothing personal. Just _les petits souvenirs_.” Jim takes a sip from his glass.

“Why are you here?”

“Missed you. Did you miss me?”

“I am not going to answer this question.”

“Oh, sweetheart. Could you forgive me somehow?” Moriarty’s fingers brush Sherlock’s hip. They hardly could be seen in this crowd but it still gets Sherlock’s nerve.

“Life is too short to fight. By the way, it’s much shorter than you think. The whole history of humanity from the Big Bang to this very evening is just a flash.”

“What do you mean?”

“20 minutes, Sherlock.”

“20 minutes and then?”

“Boooom.” Moriarty moves his lips slowly and his eyes are full of triumph.

“But you can stop it. Or join me immediately. In this case you will enjoy the show from the best viewpoint with me. Fireworks.”

Sherlock is frozen to the spot looking at Jim.

“Okay. Go ahead then.” Jim turns his back on Sherlock ready to leave. “By the way, if we never meet again…” he lifts his wineglass in a silent toast and gives Sherlock an intimate look. Then he disappears into the crowd.

Old habits die hard. Bomber.

Sherlock’s brain starts processing the information feverishly. There must be some clue. Otherwise Moriarty would have just blown up this place.

The woman he was dancing with. Could she be Moriarty’s ally? Is she carrying a bomb? There? Hardly any place to put enough explosive to destroy the building. French. Moriarty spoke French. But then everybody here speaks French. Was it a hint anyway? Think, Sherlock, think! Champaign. He casts a quick glance at the row of champaigh bottles. Could they detonate all at once? No, no. Wrong. There must be something different. What was he talking about? Time. Could anyone of these fancily dressed sirs have a clock ready to explode? He would not be ablecheck it in 20 minutes of which only 10 are left. Sherlock is scanning the guests. There must be something, someone. He feels his heart pumping in his ears. He sees a man in a wheelchair. A prominent cosmologist. The Big Bang. Must be it! He rushes to him through the crowd pushing people elegantly aside. He interrupts the waiter offering the man some starters and a drink and grabs the handles of his wheelchair instead leaning down to the man whispering readily.

“Don’t move, don’t speak to anyone, I have good reasons to believe that you have a considerable load of explosive material in your chair. Let me bring you out and check it.” The shocked man is not protesting, still holding his canape. Sherlock manoeuvres him in the external room where there is no one. He lifts the man and brings him to an armchair standing over there. Under the eyes of the amazed scientist Sherlock examines the wheelchair only to find a bomb strapped to the underside of it. He swallows heavily and feels his hands get cold with stress. The bomb has a digital panel to deactivate it. What the code could be? Sherlock checks the clock. 4 minutes are left. The digit 4 is flashing longer than needed. It must be a hint. Moriarty said “this very evening.” 4 digits. It must be 4 digits. Tonight is January, 6. Sherlock inhales composing himself and inserts 0601. There is the longest moment of waiting and then a message appears “WIN”. Sherlock feels his body is shaking with relief but he makes it stop in a minute. The shocked scientist seems to have been having a heart attack suddenly going down on the floor. Sherlock runs to call the guards who would call the ambulance.

He needs air and goes outside. The winter evening makes him feel even more alert. He inhales deeply and feels the adrenaline level in his blood stabilizing gradually. He is ready to get inside thinking how much Mycroft would possibly learn about this incident. He would pay a million for a cigarette right now. No nicotine patches, no sex for months, drugs are out of question as he is scanned once in three days and if Mycroft learns he uses something Sherlock will be immediately withdrawn. He cannot risk the minimum amount of activity he is allowed for drugs. Deep inside Sherlock knows that if only he had such puzzles on a regular basis he would never be bored and would need no drugs. Moriarty’s game is his favourite way to get high.

A black shiny limo stops in front of the steps Sherlock’s standing on and a door is opened from the inside inviting him in. Sherlock gets closer and looks inside not really surprised to find Moriarty there. He pats the leather seat near him.

“Come here.”

With a mix of delight and anger Sherlock slips into it. Danger is pumping through his veins exciting his whole being. The inches separating him from Moriarty are filled with electricity. He feels the usual wave of attraction passing through their bodies bringing them closer to each other. Jim reaches out to caress Sherlock’s cheek with the back of his hand. Sherlock keeps still but the flutter of his nostrils and the slightest movement of his lips tell Jim he is not indifferent to his touch. They look at each other in silence while the car is taking them away from the ball house. Finally Sherlock breaks the silence.

“All these months…” the words die in his mouth as Jim pulls him into a hot kiss. Sherlock is trying to control his body but he can’t resist Moriarty’s heat deepening the kiss. Jim bites his lips and pulls them and their tongues struggle and none of them is willing to lose.

Suddenly Jim pulls back and looks passionately at Sherlock squeezing his knee.

“Let me compensate it all with this evening. I’ve got something for you.” Sherlock feels he is getting hotter under these eyes black as oil.

“Go ahead.” Sherlock finds himself almost whispering.

Jim takes it as an invitation to continue the kiss almost getting on top of Sherlock’s at this lavish backseat. The driver’s part is divided with a screen which Sherlock wishes were soundproof. Maybe it is. They let their hands rambler all over their bodies teasingly. It feels a little bit surreal, lying like that in a car driven by the invisible driver bringing them to nowhere. Sherlock is already opening Jim’s trousers thinking this might be the night of his baptism with car sex when he suddenly hears a soft push and the breaks kick in.

“Final destination.” Moriarty whispers playfully in his ear lifting himself up and making Sherlock do the same. They go out of the car straightening their clothes and the cool air flushes over Sherlock’s rosy cheeks. They are standing on a hill offering a panoramic view of the city.

“Could it be more romantic?” Sherlock scoffs actually enjoying the whole detour.

“Maybe.” Moriarty gives him a long look and takes something out of his inner pocket. Sherlock watches incredulous as Jim hands him a black square box with a bow. Sherlock takes it carefully, Jim follows his movements with delight.

“Open it.”

Sherlock is trying to convince himself this cannot be like it is in stupid melodramas. He is a little bit terrified of the idea of finding inside something that could turn him off forever. Really, not with Jim, it can’t be just that obvious. Finally he brings himself to lift the upper part of the box and freezes at the sight of what is inside. A button. A red shiny button. Asking to be pushed. He traces his fingertips lightly across its surface. The touch makes time stop for a minute. He stares intensely at the box in his hands. It is so tempting. He hears Jim holding his breath. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock notices Jim’s fingers twitching almost imperceptibly.

“I can’t.” Sherlock hands it back to Jim and turns away. He feels his will is betraying him. The impulse to push the button is still lingering in his fingers.

“Let me show you how it works.” Jim takes it from him carefully. Half-disappointed, half-reassured. He could see this coming.

Sherlock knows this is pointless trying to stop him now. He cannot do anything but watch. The hill they are standing on offers the perfect view of the ball house Sherlock was in just half an hour ago. He knows what is going to happen. He is trying to keep calm and finds it easier than he would have expected.

Jim flashes his happiest grin at him and slowly pushes the button. The next moment the night sky explodes in a fireshow. Sherlock startles and his fists clench. He wanted to prevent this but there are things he cannot control nor deduce. For example, Jim. He looks at Moriarty enjoying the explosion like a child watching fireworks. Excited, exciting. He turns his head to Sherlock and looks lovingly at him.

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take January, 6 as Sherlock's birthday which is often referred as such. Just to give him a special day, you know. And in this case he is a Capricorn, just like me, which does not hurt. Though our resemblances stop at that, I'm afraid.;) On a side note, I'd say Moriarty is a Gemini to me.


	5. 5. Belgium. Then Scotland.

BELGIUM.

Sherlock gets to his hotel full of grim anticipation. He knows he has some time before Mycroft’s people arrive and eventually start examining body remains. DNA analysis would take them even more time to be sure he has not died in the explosion. When he passes next to the reception counter he can see the slightest shift of the receptionist’s gaze and his hand starting to dial a number. Sherlock understands he’s trapped. They must have traced his mobile phone before he switched it off immediately after the explosion. Damn the geolocation. He and Moriarty left the hill right after the big boom and Sherlock asked to be left three quarters away from the hotel. The time they spent in the car was sufficient though for Jim to kneel down and give him head making Sherlock see fireworks for the second time this evening.

He told himself that he should stop it. He felt his brain getting corrupted by this cocktail of adrenaline and oxytocin. Too dangerous of a game. Moriarty wants him to leave it and pass to his side. God knows, Sherlock is tempted to do so. Hardly any social regret. The only vague thought that keeps him from taking another step is Watson. He hopes one day there will be a chance to meet him and explain and maybe try to say “I’m sorry”.

Last Moriarty’s question lingers in his mind.

“When will I see you again?”

He was going to say “Immediately”. Right now, Jim, let’s go away, like, forever. Let’s live this short and stupid life in total anarchy. Let it all burn like you did. Sherlock is tired of himself. No real game under Mycroft’s cap. He forsees a long and tedious interrogation. He is not surprised when he finds two armed men in his suite. He knows the protocol and does not try to struggle to avoid damage. They escort him out of the hotel and off to the headquarter where he is put into a dark cell with a monitor in it.

Soon it comes alive and Mycroft’s severe face appears.

He pauses angrily watching Sherlock crossing his legs in the chair with apparent nonchalance.

“Sherlock, you are being withdrawn and disrated with immediate effect.”

“Oh, please, leave your official terms for somebody else.” Sherlock scoffs. “I have no rank.”

“No.” Mycroft pauses trying to control his voice and prevent himself from yelling. “Not anymore.”

“You will be moved now.”

“Where to? Prison?”

“Scotland.”

“Please, have some mercy. Send me to prison.”

Mycroft ignores his arrogance.

“In the meanwhile we will investigate the reasons of the explosion and your inability to prevent it as required. For now you won’t have any outdoor mission and will only have to report daily on the state of the object to be identified upon your arrival on site.”

“Why don’t you let me come back to London? Can’t you investigate with me on Baker St.”

“I don’t think there is place for you any longer there.”

Mycroft clutches his lips and watches Sherlock’s expression changing from irritating to pleasantly stirred.

“How’s John?”

“He’s fine. He has moved out.”

“Keeping an eye on him? What do you mean moved out?”

“Found someone.”

“Whom? I am the consulting detective. Whom could he possibly have found?”

Sherlock almost jumps up in indignation. Mycroft smirks sourly tasting his puzzled state.

“It is a woman.”

“A woman?..” Sherlock pauses but then shakes it off.

“Yes. He has a proper house now. Clean. Safe. No chopped fingers in his fridge. Must be enjoying it.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock is trying to look confident but there is something trembling inside him. How come John has left the flat just like that. Well. But he believes I’m dead. What is he supposed to do? He is not religious enough to believe in resurrection.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Sherlock, but your time is over.”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him as Mycroft disconnects.

 

SCOTLAND.

Nothing happens and Sherlock is already evaluating the idea of a suicide. He is not really allowed to go out and the house he is staying in offers nothing practical to be used as means to take his life. Not even a decent hook to get hanged on. Sherlock wonders whether one could die of boredom. He guesses he could. No news from Moriarty. All Sherlock’s numbers have been changed abruptly. He cannot take the risk of contacting Moriarty now. He wonders whether he is still on the loose. He considers Mycroft would have taken maximum precautions in handling his shift considering the conditions of his last mission. Everything is still, even the sea where the oil platform which Sherlock controls stands. Daily reports are sent off duly. Codes and numbers he never bothers to try to stand which he received from the platform are sent to the central office and this is it. His external guards change every day and they never speak to him. Not until one day the new guard he has never seen before comes to Sherlock dragging a senseless body inside.

“Quick. Defibrillator.”

Sherlock jumps up.

“What are you doing??? This is against instructions! You can’t bring people in!”

But secretly he is pleased the monotony has been broken. Hardly any danger is to be expected. Mycroft is too paranoid. One day it will destroy his career.

“An engineer has had a heart attack. He approached me suddenly, wanted to ask me something. I pulled out my gun and he fell down. I could not have shocked him to death. Could I?!”

Sherlock cannot bear the frightened look of this newcomer.

He gestures him to put the man on the couch and goes to take the defibrillator feeling a bit uplift. He thinks about Watson for a moment. He would be so prompt to help.

“Would you please hurry up?” The guard is shaking and his voice falls into the higher notes uncontrollably.

Sherlock is really disappointed with the choice of people. Mycroft’s standards have really dropped. He takes the defibrillator from the case in the kitchen and now he is ready to occupy himself with bringing the anonymous man back to life. He walks back and he thinks he still has to look in his face covered with the overlapping hood of his rain jacket. The scene he sees when he is back makes him feel irritated and excited at the same time. Moriarty is pressing the barrel to the guard’s head, looking completely healthy and beaming.

“No rush.”

Sherlock puts down the defibrillator looking a little bit annoyed.

“This is getting old.” Moriarty winks.

“What? My popping up here and there?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock can’t help staring at him. For how much longer will they continue this game?

“Well, consider this my style. I’ve brought you great news, Sherlock. We can finally go away together.” He has a dreamy look in his eyes.

“I’ve got it all arranged. The oil platform you’ve been keeping an eye on” Sherlock’s eyes brow flies up, “is ready to drift away. I can get you out of this boring reality.”

The guard looks shocked and angry at Sherlock.

“You have just sent the report. We have an hour before the next one is due. Kill him” Moriarty kicks the guards with the tip of his shoes, “and let’s get out of here.”

Here it comes, Sherlock thinks, here it comes. The final decision.

“No need to kill him though.” Sherlock is trying to stay impassive but the feeling of freedom so close now is inebriating.

“Of course, there is. If you just lay him out he will eventually get up and tell your Big Brother about everything. And you will be put in prison. In the very least. This is your last chance, Sherlock. If you let me go now I will never ask you anything again. The Big Brother will know everything. And I will destroy you anyway. I can’t let you be on your own.”

Sherlock is looking at the trembling guard. He is his only salvation.

“What if I kill _you_ instead?”

“Try.” Jim looks at him intensely.

Sherlock returns his gaze and Moriarty clearly sees a shadow passing through his eyes.

Sherlock does not feel his own face. He takes the defibrillator and approaches the guard pointing his shaking head.

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

The deck is open to the wind and Sherlock feels his skin is tight with the thinnest layer of salt clinging to it. Jim traces his traits with his fingertips looking admiringly at Sherlock. Pleased, he notices a sharper quality to his whole look.

“You will see, this is just the beginning.”

They share a kiss.


	6. 6. Meanwhile in London. Molly and Lestrade.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I kinda ship them.

LONDON.

“I can’t believe a year has passed.” Lestrade looks absolutely crashed standing in front of Sherlock’s tombstone. Molly looks at him sympathetically. She would like to lighten this burden but she has to keep silent about the details of Sherlock’s suicide.

Lestrade is browsing his pockets searching for a cigarette. The patches don’t quite give the same sensation as taking a deep drag. This is the physical movement filling the awkward moments that is missing. He scratches the back of his neck inside. Molly notices there is no wedding band on it. So, it must be over between him and his wife.

“Do you think the dead can hear us?” Lestrade stares at the letters “Sherlock Holmes” and Molly is not sure he is not talking to himself.

“I think sometimes they better not.” Molly scoffs but immediately cuts herself. _Don’t make jokes, Molly._

Lestrade seems not to be hearing. He is pretty depressed actually. Molly notices his stubble, he looks thinner than usual, must be eating crap. She was really reluctant to come but when Lestrade phoned her she somehow finished saying “yes”. She feels like she should do something to lift him up.

“We could… you know… go out for drinks… tonight maybe…” she is not really sure how she has brought herself to say it out loud.

Suddenly a bulb seems to light up inside Lestrade.

“Yeah, great. I will come to pick you up at 8. Is this okay?”

Molly nods. Lestrade gives her a nice smile.

“Send me the address.”

Another nod.

Before he adds something else his cell phone rings. From his answers it is clear he is needed in the office.

“I have to come back. Shall we go?” They walk back to the car and stay pretty silent during the ride to the hospital where Lestrade leaves Molly. When he waves her goodbye with a boyish smile she wonders whether it is going to be a date tonight.

Even if it’s officially not, Molly puts some effort into preparing for tonight. After a brief hesitation she shaves her legs and the rest. Just to keep it nice she tells herself. Greg is just a pal and this is actually something like a consolation evening drink but a dress never hurt anybody.

Lestrade is a little nervous and is short of time but he manages to come home, take a shower and change his shirt before coming at Molly’s. This is not a date, he tells himself, a pretty grim occasion – Sherlock’s death anniversary – but still sticks a couple of condoms into his wallet. Just in case. He checks his face in the mirror. Could be better but really at this time of the year there is not much to expect. He thinks and adds a spray of cologne which makes him sneeze and he wishes he did not.

He has to wait for a couple of minutes before Molly goes out. When she gets into the car he can’t but stare at her bare knees for a moment longer than accepted. Then he shifts his gaze to her lips with a gloss on them and her high pony tail. He’d like to kiss her on the cheek but decides not to keeping in mind the preceding events of the day. A cemetery in the morning, a pub at night. You know how to make a girl have fun, Greg. His ex-wife’s mocking voice in his head is not so easy to ignore but he tries to.

While they wait for traffic lights to turn green again Molly gives him a little cheeky look.

“Can’t you turn the flasher on?”

Lestrade grins at her and he is almost tempted to do so but the road is free now so no need to show off like a 15-year-old.

At the pub they take drinks and something to eat. Molly watches as Lestrade is trying not to swallow his food in monstrous bites. He must be really hungry. They are sitting at the bar counter and their knees touch accidentally. When Molly crosses her legs and the lateral muscle of her thigh tenses seductively Lestrade almost forgets to chew.

“It’s not the same without Sherlock.” He mumbles trying to distract himself from thinking about sliding a palm up Molly’s leg.

“Yeah, like some big piece of the picture missing.” Molly does not want to get sad but there is a momentarily flash crossing her thoughts: where is he now?

“To Sherlock.” Lestrade lifts his glass and Molly copies him. They drink in silence. Greg feels the urgent need to change the subject.

“I like this green on you.” He blurts out suddenly. Nice try, Greg, the masters of seduction are writing down your tricks.

Molly smiles shyly and adjusts the neck of her dress and Lestrade follows her hand with his eyes.

“It’s nice to go out like this.” She takes another sip.

Another round of drinks. Then shots. Molly seems to know what she wants and Lestrade is pretty amazed watching her as she sends down her tequila without hesitation. He follows her and can’t resist beating her ordering one more shot. Which is actually enough as he still has to drive her home. The police car is a great advantage in this case. No risk to be stopped accidentally. They end up being pretty tipsy. They both feel warm and loose and Molly doesn’t struggle when Greg helps her put on her coat and squeezes her for a second so that their lips almost touch. She giggles all the way to her house. Lestrade seems to be having a great fun as he keeps telling her police anecdotes which she can hardly find funny and this awkwardness makes them laugh. She feels grateful for this evening. He hopes it is not over yet. He accompanies her to the front door and while she is searching for the keys in her purse he does not resist and leans down to kiss her lightly on the neck. In the worst of the cases he will be able to blame it on tequila tomorrow. Molly freezes for a second and Greg is already expecting a slap in the face, well, a deserved one. But instead Molly turns to him finding herself locked between him and the door and pulls him closer without a word kissing him with a hot drunk kiss. Somehow they manage to open the door and almost fall inside Molly’s flat without turning the lights on. There is a faint smell of Molly’s perfume in the hallway and Lestrade shivers in surprise when a pair of golden eyes flash at him from the dark.

“Mr. Cat, go.” Molly waves him away tugging at Greg’s belt urging him to continue. He presses her against the wall opening her coat, letting his hands roam over her body. She breaths hotly as he pushes her dress down her shoulders with her bra and her hands shiver with pleasure opening his trousers as he licks and sucks her nipples. He is hard and thick, like a good automatic umbrella handle. He gets under her skirt to take off her panties tossing them to the floor to the joy of Mr. Cat who nicks them triumphantly. Then he brings his fingers back between her legs only to find with satisfaction she is wet and needy at his touch. It takes him mere seconds to fish a condom ouf of the wallet and put it on. He is not very acrobatic usually but Molly is light and lifting her up against the wall holding her legs apart takes him a minimum effort. The reward is great though. As he makes her slide down his cock only to start giving her decisive pushes supported by her little moans and kisses he feels how much he needed that. Apparently it’s been a long time for Molly too. Her panting and absence of any interchange between them speak louder than words. At some point Lestrade finds himself caught in a rhythm ready to go on and on. Which is a great relief as the last thing he would expect today is a fast finish. The weight of Molly’s body and her legs bouncing against his hips make the intercourse quite an athletic one. He starts liking it though thinking of how amazing he is tonight and right at this point Molly goes “ahahahahhhh” squeezing him hot and hard and the pulse of her inside gets him and he only lets himself show off for some more before coming with satisfaction.

They kiss shakily and Lestrade helps her go down and feels his own legs betray him, he can feel them vibrating. He pulls his trousers up and sits down next to her. He takes her hand and squeezes it exchanging happy glances. He brings her palm to his mouth to kiss it lightly feeling her tender knuckles under his lips.

“Quite an obit.” Greg grins.

But a sudden change of Molly’s expression tells him that was a wrong move. Can’t keep your mouth shut and your trousers zipped up, heh. Greg?

Molly draws her hand back from Lestrade. She can’t stop sadness rising in her chest. Of course, she knows Sherlock is alive but she can’t help feeling as if she had betrayed him. A sickening realization of what she has just done floods her. How come? Can she be possibly over him? After all this time? Finally? Now?

Lestrade knows. He reads it in her eyes. He has always known. And he knows that now when Sherlock is not around any longer he could possibly stand a chance. A smallest chance. But still.

Molly imagines how Lestrade silently leaves her flat and she keeps sitting here on the floor with just a cat twisting its tail around her ankles. She lifts her head and looks at Greg as if still indecisive. Finally her lips move.

“Will you stay the night?”

 


	7. 7. France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The life of the consulting couple after running away.

France is a nice change after Scotland. Crossing the North Sea was pretty long and Sherlock hated staying in without a chance to have a good walk. He wondered what was waiting for him now. Jim had no doubts: they would build an empire together.

In these last several months in France they never settled down travelling from city to city, client to client, one luxurious hotel after another luxurious hotel. In Paris Sherlock had an impression of having seen Irene. She crossed the lobby of his hotel and walked out under his eyes as he was in the glass elevator going down from the rooftop restaurant. She looked even thinner than he remembered she was and the tight black dress she was wearing maximized the effect. This episode made him think of his past life, which now felt like another life really. He kept himself occupied with new things. Jim’s methods were dirty but he was willing to close his eyes if needed to keep it intense, just the way they both liked their lives. Criminal plans took Jim lots of effort. Sherlock did the preparatory part and investigations. Everything that could be found or deduced on the people Moriarty needed to control to achieve his goals. Technically Sherlock was not contemplating crimes but providing consulting for Jim. Sherlock was never bored and now in the money. From time to time Jim could disappear for a day or two. Sherlock never asked where he has been if not openly told. He would deduce it almost every time. Sometimes Jim was so thorough in hiding the traces that it took Sherlock some extra spying on him to solve his riddles. Moriarty was just back from another trip and judging by his look Sherlock could tell he had been to America. He did not have his laboratory at hand to inspect dust, pollen or other materials which could be found on his partner’s possessions but he was observant enough to notice the effects of drinking too many cokes which only happened when Jim was in the States.

“You can join me next time.” Jim gives him a fond gaze.

“No reason to do so.”

“Aren’t you tempted to go to London.” Jim is watching Sherlock shaving. Sherlock gives him an impassive look and continues.

“The very idea of being so close to London here, doesn’t it excite you?”

“Why?”

“Well,” Moriarty studies his nails, “you know, all those things that happened to you back there, your job, John”, Sherlock freezes for a second. “Don’t’ you want your pet back?”

“Stop it.” Sherlock is pretty used to this kind of mockery but the very thought of what he have put John through makes him uncomfortable but he is not going to let Jim get it.

“Just saying. I guess this must be irritating losing your playmate.” Sherlock washes his face and checks its smoothness. Then he turns to Moriarty who is watching him from the doorframe. He grabs him by his t shirt and pulls him close. He squeezes his chin hard and turns his head from side to side evaluating his bristle. Jim watches pleased as Sherlock pushes him against the basin with his shoulders to the mirror and covers his chin and cheeks with shaving mousse. When the razor makes the first contact with his skin Moriarty shivers.

“Keep still.” Sherlock’s voice is low as he makes the razor glide over Jim’s cheek and down. Jim tilts his head back a little and his defenseless neck wakes up something very primal in Sherlock making him press Jim tighter against the edge of the basin. As he shaves the bottom part of the jaw close to the carotid Jim closes his eyes and smiles blessed. Sherlock watches the skin pulse under the pressure and he pictures for a second how he would slit Jim’s throat. Jim feels the pause and opens his eyes. There is no fear in them. Just curiosity. A charged moment passes. Sherlock slowly takes a towel and cleans the rest of the foam off and tosses it to the floor. Very carefully Jim takes his hand and makes him lay down the razor.

“Thank you for the help.” He kisses Sherlock lightly on the lips.

His hands open the towel wrapped around Sherlock’s hips the way it was the first time they met after leaving London. He looks appreciatively at Sherlock’s cock which has gone half-hard in the meantime. He gives it the first tentative stroke and hears as Sherlock exhales shakily.

“Now it’s my turn.”

* * *

Jim has ordered for them both and now they are waiting for their starters to be brought in. Sherlock scans the guests deducing them automatically; all the details are stored in his mind in an instant. His eye stops on a slender blondish man whom he saw yesterday. He returns his gaze and brings his glass slowly to his mouth to take a little sip licking his lips meaningfully. Sherlock’s brow flies up. He is not accustomed to such blatant flirting. Jim notices the change of his expression and his jaw gets rigid. He is tempted to turn back and check what’s that that has surprised Sherlock so much but he suppresses the impulse. They eat in silence and Sherlock can’t help but notice the way the man puts his fork in his mouth as he keeps his eyes on Sherlock. Finally he wipes his lips with a napkin and heads to the bathroom giving Sherlock an almost imperceptible nod. As he passes by, Jim notices him and gets visibly angry. It makes it difficult for Sherlock not to smile. A jealous Jim. This is something new.

“Nothing funny about it.” Moriarty stubs angrily his steak. “Follow him and this will be your last shag.” His eyes turn cold and darker than usual. Sherlock ignores his anger.

As the man returns to his table Jim watches him and his whole look screams danger. He turns his head towards Sherlock.

“More wine?” ready to pour him a glass.

Sherlock pushes away his fish which he has hardly touched.

“I’m going to have a cigarette.” He stands up and goes to the terrace. As he is ready to light his cigarette he feels a light movement in the air filled with the smell of the sea and jasmine in bloom. The man he was exchanging glances with offers him a lighter leaning in seductively. Sherlock sizes him up.

“Not interested.”

“Sorry?”

“I said I am not interested.” He looks meaningfully at him and takes a step back to make it clear.

Sherlock makes several drags looking away as the perplexed man keeps standing there with his lighter in hand and then returns to Jim who has got pretty tipsy in the meanwhile. He gives Sherlock a very heavy look.

“Go upstairs and get ready for me.” Sherlock picks up an invisible thread from his shoulder making his face twitch.

“Do as I say.”

They meet in the room a quarter of an hour later. On his way from the door to the bed Sherlock’s already in Jim starts undressing and Sherlock can see clearly he is still mad. Immovable, he watches Moriarty as he tosses his shoes and clothes climbing on the mattress next to Sherlock. Their eyes meet and Sherlock enjoys the silent struggle. Jim does not blink.

“Don’t ever play these games with me.” He sounds like a rattlesnake ready to attack.

“What games should I play then?” Sherlock traces his index finger long Jim’s collarbone making him tick. Jim gets so close that Sherlock almost can almost see the line between his pupils and the dark irises.

“I’ll show you now.”

* * *

 

Sherlock folds the newspaper and pushes it towards Jim across the table. The front page contains the picture of the chap that approached Sherlock yesterday.

“The man has drowned.”

Moriarty ignores Sherlock’s comment getting another brioche. He is hungrier than usual but then, Sherlock supposes, this can be attributed to the way they have spent last night. He himself avoids chewing due to his aching jaw. Though going on without food has never been a particularly important issue for him. Coffee will do.

“You know, Sherlock”, Jim is incredibly taken up with his breakfast, “people happen to die.” He chuckles grimly. “It is surprising how you keep pointing it out.”

Sherlock is ready to bite back when he is approached by one of the staff.

“Sir, there is an incoming call for you.”

“This must be a mistake.” Sherlock and Jim exchange warned glances.

“No, sir, this is for you.”

Moriarty forgets about his breakfast in an instant and watches Sherlock stand up and head to the reception counter fiercely wiping his fingers with a napkin. Sherlock takes the receiver and does not give the caller a chance to speak first.

“I told him I was not interested. I’m not coming back, Mycroft. Leave me alone.”

There is a pause at the other end of the phone as Mycroft is trying to hide the fact he is actually surprised by the deduction but then this is Sherlock. What to expect?

“I can’t, Sherlock, you’ve crossed the line. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“This is your problem.” And he hangs up.

Sherlock comes back to the table. When Sherlock sits down Jim, who has now left the food suddenly satiated, gives him a piercing look.

“Mycroft knows.”


	8. 8. Still France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the sex, and the drugs, and the complications.
> 
> Meds - Placebo

They are in the elevator taking them up to their room and Sherlock is watching Jim whose eyes are not moving staring at one invisible point on the door. Sherlock deduces he is calculating. He himself has a moment of calm before the storm of his thoughts starts. He feels a little dizzy after the sleepless night and due to the lack of food.

In the room Jim takes out his coke supply and prepares a long line on the glass table. Sherlock watches him inhale the drug and his nostrils flute involuntarily mimicking the movement of Jim’s and he closes his eyes to resist the temptation. He has been clean since his departure and now every single cell of his body is crying for a fix. Jim lifts his head and looks at him with a libidinous smile. He licks his index finger and collects the remaining powder from the surface of the table and rubs it into his gums enjoying the way Sherlock can’t prevent his face from twitching at this. Jim stands up slowly and approaches Sherlock placing his hands on the back of the sofa Sherlock’s siting on so that his hips are hanging over Sherlock’s face. He sways them back and forward.

“I’d serve it to you on the tip of my cock and watch you suck it but I’m afraid you are still too ruined.”

His voice enters Sherlock’s bloodstream. His addiction opens its eyes and protracts its claws scratching his mind invitingly. Come and play with me.

Sherlock keeps still but swallows hard imagining the scene. He is not sure what is more obscene in this moment: the perspective of sex or drugs. Jim waits for a little longer stretching his back as the cocaine kicks in and he feels his body getting electric and his mind more focused. He understands Sherlock is not going to surrender. So he lowers himself to sit on Sherlock’s lap feeling him startle with pleasure as their groins connect and grinding himself on Sherlock. Sherlock brings him closer watching his eyes gleam like oil. He kisses him eagerly despite the jaws hurt like hell and Jim hums with satisfaction deepening the kiss feeling Sherlock’s tongue searching for the drug remaining on his gums. Sherlock craves the familiar metallic taste and the sensation of numbness in his lips so he goes hard and his sore jaws open up hungrily. He wants it all, every tiny particle he can get. The metallic flair is so acute, he sucks at Jim’s mouth as his eyes are shut and his fingers dive into Moriarty’s hips rubbing them against Sherlock’s body. Make me feel high, Jim. Moriarty jerks his head back abruptly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s bleeding.

“So greedy.” Jim licks his lips and the taste of his blood in Sherlock’s mouth is animal.

Jim lifts himself up still keeping the eye contact with Sherlock whose breath has come shallow and cheeks has got rosier. Jim likes him like that, with that subtle air of decadence.

Jim grabs his phone, dials a number and puts it on speaker.

“You should be a little more prompt answering your phone or your clients will be gone to someone else, you know.” Jim chuckles putting the coke away.

“Is Sherlock with you?”

Jim watches pleased ash Sherlock inhales sharply when hearing Irene’s voice. It’s been a while. Moriarty does not reply and Sherlock does not say a word. Probably she knows they are together. She could have seen them at that hotel.

After a pause Irene continues and there’s concern in her words.

“Sherlock, I know you’re there.”

“Oh, love, I’m sorry but no time for flirting. NOW SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME! Remember those short videos of our friend you had, I think they might a broader audience.”

Sherlock watches him surprised. Must be the effect of the coke, he guesses.

“John Watson can’t be the only person who enjoys them.”

Hearing Watson’s name stirs Sherlock but he shows no sign of it.

Irene continues, shaken, but firm in her intention to continue.

“Sherlock, they will charge you.” There is a pause and Jim turns around abruptly, his gaze is piercing Sherlock’s expression as he listens to the words. “They will charge you with the things you will have no chance to clear yourself off.”

A beat. Sherlock crosses his legs and presses his fingertips together.

“Sherlock, you should come back to London immediately. Don’t play with them. You still have a chance…”

“Oh, shut up, bitch! SHUT UP!” Jim facepalms annoyed.

“This is serious!” Irene voice breaks and Sherlock feels a cold pang deep inside. “Jim, if you care for him, if you care in the slightest, let him go.” Jim’s flash with something Sherlock cannot read. Emotions, not really his area.

“Let him go.” Irene’s almost pleading.

Jim disconnect furious. He squeezes the phone in his hand almost tempted to crush it. Sherlock sees the muscles of his face and neck tensing all at once like in one massive spasm. Then his face morphs into an impassive mask, he does not blink looking at Sherlock.

“So?” His voice gives no sign of any emotion, a mechanical, robot voice. Sherlock does not reply but he can’t look him in the face. Jim waits a minute, not moving. Then he takes his case and heads to the door. Sherlock does not ask where he is going as he pretty much knows where to.

Jim pauses at the door and then pushes it open. He does not turn back and Sherlock does not try to stop him. He just keeps sitting still as he was.

_A dangerous disadvantage._

* * *

When Mycroft enters the room she is already sitting there in the chair. He notices she is trying to keep herself as straight and confident as she used to but he knows she cannot really. Not after what happened between them. He enjoys the way her shoulders shiver almost imperceptibly as his steps count the distance between them. One, two, three, four… stop. He places his hand on the side of her neck and feels the tender pulse under pacing up. He cannot see her face but he does not need to. Without saying a word she puts out a hand holding a flash drive.

“Very wise”.

Mycroft takes it with two fingers and puts it into his inside pocket. He leans down so that his lips almost brush against her ear. The heavy smell of her oriental perfume is unbearably sweet. He traces his teeth along the edge of the shell and gives it a light bite.

“Glad you’ve got it all right.”

Mycroft pats her cheek slightly. She turns her head slowly and kisses his hand with quiet devotion. The ring under her lips is as cold as her rage. He savours the moment and then presses the intercome button.

“Anthea, please, conduct Ms. Adler to the exit.”

* * *

 

Jim is back in two days at night. Sherlock is awake, waiting for him.

“How was London?”

Jim does not bother to answer. He puts down his case, pours himself a glass and sends down the whiskey in on gulp. Sherlock stands up from his chair, his sleeves are rolled up. Jim does not look in his direction as he approaches him and pours himself another glass. Sherlock is watching him from a short distance. He notices Jim’s two-day bristle. Sherlock reaches out to touch his hand but Jim distances himself abruptly and puts down the glass heading to the bathroom starting to take off his tie.

Then he pauses and turns around.

“Will you stop looking at me?”

Sherlock comes closer slowly like a hunting leopard. Moriarty gives him a steady gaze from under the eyebrows. Sherlock pushes him against the wall, his hands are placed in line with Jim’s head. He keeps cool apparently unimpressed. He studies Sherlock’s appearance as if he had never seen him.

“You have not been eating in these days.”

“And you have been drinking.”

1:1. Jim swallows slowly as he watches Sherlock as if he had understood he could never truly get him, own him.

He nods to himself as if acclaiming that it is over and wants to pass under Sherlock’s arm to go take a shower.

“Wait.” Sherlock’s almost whispering hanging over him, his voice is filled with something Jim cannot catalogue as he feels so tired.

“What for? Have you prepared a speech?”

“I’m not going to talk.” Sherlock is staring intensely at him pointing his mouth. He senses his hot breath on his face, Jim is visibly stresses, his skin is paler than usual.

Sherlock leans down in one quick movement and gives Jim a long hot kiss tasting the remaining alcohol. Initially Moriarty is reluctant to open his mouth but Sherlock insists and Jim feels his palms are sliding up his back under his jacket. Sherlock presses his whole body to that of Moriarty’s and Jim feels he is all shivering with arousal, his cock is standing completely up, he can feel its delicious thickness through their clothes. He does not protest when Sherlock slides his hand in Jim’s pocket and takes off his phone putting it aside. After that his hands return to Jim’s clothes, taking off his tie slowly, making his jacket slide down his arms kissing him hungrily. He opens the buttons of his blue shirt one by one caressing his chest looking down. Jim follows the movements of the violinist’s fingers amazed, startling pleasantly when the thumbs make small circles around his nipples. Sherlock untucks his shirt completely and takes it off Jim tossing it to the floor, his hands ramble all over Jim’s torso as he licks and sucks his neck, going down, inhaling his smell. He wants to get, to remember it all, the way Jim is when he is back from somewhere.

His mouth slides down, down his chest and Sherlock kneels kissing and making Jim hiss at tickling as he licks his stomach, opening his trousers, placing his hot greedy mouth over his underwear sporting a dark spot of precum. Sucking at the tip of Jim’s cock through the cloth, damping it with his saliva. Jim can’t help placing his palms of Sherlock’s head guiding him, urging him to open his mouth wider, to pull down his pants, to finally let him slip between Sherlock’s reddened lips with a porny exhale. Sherlock jerks down his pants and trousers letting them hang around Jim’s ankles licking the inside of his thighs as the hair there tickle his cheeks, getting further between his legs, sucking at his balls making Jim swear.

“Oh, fuck…” When Sherlock sucks him in and out Jim goes absolutely delirious, his cock is bigger than e. It is pulsing and leaking into Sherlock’s mouth filling it with slick salty cum. Jim closes his eyes and goes back and forward in a steady rhythm. He does not want to stop himself and wait for too long. Sherlock’s tongue licks hard the underside of his pumping cock and his hand jerks off his base wet with Sherlock’s saliva. Jim feels his whole body has gone numb to silence any other signal but the pulse in his groin, his balls tightening up, so full of sperm, ready to pour themselves. He feels his skin is tingling and getting on fire as the head of his cock swells and his foreskin is so tight Jim is afraid it could break. Sherlock gets it too that Jim is almost coming and leaves his cock abruptly right before a tight jet of Jim’s sperm hits him across the forehead and cheek sending several drops on the floor and ruining Sherlock’s shirt. Jim is taken over by this lusty orgasm and stays for a while with his eyes closed. He opens them only to give Sherlock a dirty grin as he sees him dart out his tongue to lick the beads of his semen from the corner of his mouth. He reaches out and flicks his thumb over Sherlock’s lips bringing more sperm into his mouth and making him lick it all off in a dark, possessive gesture. Sherlock bites the fingertips slightly, watching Jim with intensity. Jim feels his heart gives a heavy, aching beat.

“This is my answer.”


	9. 9. Germany. Meanwhile in London: Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consulting boyfriends on the run.  
> Bits of Moriarty's and Mary's backstory.  
> Mary and Watson.

That very night they decide to fleet. There is a bunker in Karlsruhe where they can stay for a while untraced. They prepare the minimum amount of things necessary and take a car. Sherlock is in a hurry but notices Jim packing up an object he had never seen before – a small steel trunk.

Jim is a mad driver and Sherlock constantly hisses at him to be careful. Everything is fine until they cross the border. While Sherlock is charming one officer and Jim is finding a way to give money to another one suddenly the first one recognizes Jim from the wanted list and tells the other one to arrest them. He hesitates and the first one targets them. It’s a flash decision and Sherlock is not really sure how it happens but in a second there is a gun in his hand and he is standing between two corpses and Jim is looking at him awed and there are drops of blood on his face.

They make it just in time to get to their destination and during the rest of the drive Sherlock is cold and his whole body is shaking a little.

They do not talk as they settle their things in a small bunker. As they are getting ready to sleep after a long ride Sherlock brushes his teeth and the face which is looking at him from the mirror is not the face of the man who left London over a year ago. When he slips into the bed next to Jim he wraps him in his arms and Sherlock feels his muffled breath against his shoulder. They are lying in darkness squeezed tight together cut from the rest of the world ready to shut its trap closed around them.

“How does it feel to be on the run, Sherlock? I bet you’re not used to it.”

“Unlike you.”

Jim chuckles and rubs his nose on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You are accustomed to change places. You went to university but not in England. Got a professor degree. Very young. Must have finished school in advance. A wealthy benefactor I suppose otherwise you would not have got any chance. Who, your father? Was he a foreigner, a Frenchman maybe, you’re pretty fluent in French but reluctant to speak it. Did he leave your mother pregnant and then came back with remorse when you were in foster care and your mother was already dead by the time? Did he bring you to France and made you study there? Your manners tell me you’re not upper class – no offence though,” Jim gives him a pretty hard punch in the ribs and Sherlock grips his fist, “– but you know fine living. Did you kill him to get the money? Made it look like a death from natural causes. Inherited it all. Changed your name. came to London.”

“I like it that you have this romantic image of me in your head. The reality is much less adorned. You know what kind of things I am up to.”

“I do.”

“That fact that you are still here means you enjoy it. That’s why I convinced you to follow me. No pressure of judgment. You are free to like what you like.”

Sherlock thinks of all the burden of higher standards. The intricate pattern of social interaction. No need to worry about them now.

* * *

The next day they get some bad news.

“They have eliminated some of my key people in London. The Big Brother must be really pissed.”

Jim finishes to read an email and closes his laptop with a loud slap.

He stands up and walks the room. Sherlock is sure Mycroft is letting out his dogs and the true hunt is about to start. He knows Irene is right. He will be charged. Supposedly, she capitulated under the same threat. She was never a reliable player. A woman in their world could never survive without being under a man’s protection. The fact with Irene was that she had far too many men around and this is what broke her at last. He understood what videos Moriarty was talking about. He could have bet even before Mycroft was seeing Irene in private. Apparently, recreational scolding was his cup of tea. But Sherlock is well aware that it takes more than a whip to tame some sirs. A completely different arsenal is needed and Sherlock thinks he knows who might have it.

“Well. They have not eliminated _my_ people.” Jim stops and looks at Sherlock surprised. “And they hardly will.” He enjoys the puzzled look at Jim’s face as he writes a short encrypted text for the first time in the last several months.

“Holmes, don’t you dare insinuating you are more powerful than me.”

Sherlock sends the text satisfied.

“There are different types of power.”

“Being enigmatic, are we? What are you going to do? Challenge your brother?”

Sherlock stands up and makes a circle around Jim with his hands clutches behind his back. Then he leans in and studies Jim closely.

“Let’s see whose game this is.”

He gives Moriarty a naughty boyish smile.

* * *

 

Sherlock is being cautious and danger of being caught right now sharpens his senses. Each minute of life feels precious now.

They meet at a park in the afternoon. She handles him two passports and tickets.

“I’ve cleaned the records a bit.”

He nods thankfully.

“It will take them some days to restore them but in the meanwhile you can cross the border. Technically they could extradite you both from Brazil but it might require some time before they will be able to take you back with all formalities.”

Sherlock looks in the distance as if picturing his future.

“I’ve killed people. I’ve done things.”

“Who am I to judge you?”

She looks down at her shoes putting her hands into the pockets of her coat.

“This is not what I would have done in other circumstances.” Sherlock gives her an apologizing look. “I have not planned on _this_.”

“You don’t really have much time.” She squeezes his forearm gently. He gives her an unexpected hug.

“How’s John? Are you taking good care of him?” He whispers in her ear.  She nods. “He is fine, Sherlock.”

“How much longer does Mycroft want you to stay with him?”

“Don’t worry, I will handle it all.” They break the embrace and exchange glances.

“If I don’t see you again…” Sherlock pauses and it is visibly hard for him to speak. “Will you ever tell him the truth?”

“Sherlock,” her voice get lower and he knows there is a deeper meaning to her words, “I think it’s not a mission any longer.”

Sherlock’s face changes at the realization and he smiles warmly.

“You’re saying…”

“Yes.” The woman smiles back.

“Be careful, you two.”

“We will… What’s your current name, by the way?” Sherlock pulls a puzzled face.

“Mary.” She puckers up mockingly.

“Sounds harmless.”

"Doesn’t it?” She gives him a super innocent look.

“Thanks for coming, _Mary_.”

“How could I miss the chance to eat a true carrot cake? It’s been a while. Though you know, it doesn’t feel like home any longer.” There’s a tender sadness in her voice.

They stay in silence for a while.

“Okay then,” she stands up ready to go, “see you in London, Sherlock.”

“See you in London, Mary.”

* * *

 

Mary is away for two days to see a friend in Scotland, should be back tomorrow morning. Without her around John finds it hard staying alone at home. Should he start writing his blog again? Too painful to even read the old entries for now.

He wishes she were back as soon as possible.

Things with Mary have been quick. After a couple of dates they moved into the bedroom and then he did not how but he found himself living outside the central London, pretty happy, properly fed (he likes that Mary is that handy with knives), thoroughly fucked and taken care of which was a nice change from his usual situation. She had this miracle touch which made him want to go on. They just clicked and things have been easy between them. Their lives fused together naturally. Everything is fine except for the very simple fact that John has no friends. He thinks he might be ready to go see Mrs. Hudson, he knows she would be pleased. He only needs to make himself actually go to Baker St.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson pours him some tea and John takes it gratefully.

“It’s been some time since we last talked. That’s a nice jacket, John, a new one?” He nods. Mary chose it.

“Sherlock would love it.” His throat clenches for a second.

They drink in silence for a moment and John struggles to look in her face. He has been postponing this visit for the last several months until Mary convinced him to go and yet he had to make a couple of circles around the street before he could bring himself to come in.

“Glad you came. I have not had visitors for a long time. No one ever pops in.”

“Not even Mycroft?”

“Him? Oh, you must be kidding me.”

“They have not even removed the cameras?”

Mrs. Hudson looks puzzled for a second.

“Cameras? You mean… here?” she puts down her cup.

“Yes. The flat was full of cameras. Moriarty’s apparently. Sherlock has discovered them once.”

“Oh, I had no idea.” Mrs. Hudson takes a biscuit and starts munching it hastily.

“Yes. He had it all under his control, he observed us. Knew all our conversations, every detail.” John finds it really hard to talk, the memories flood him. He is glad they are sitting in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. He is tempted to enter the living room but then he guesses the stress would be too big. His therapist advised him to avoid all possible commotions. Mary says the same. Since they moved together he is seeing his therapist only once a week. Huge progress.

“I keep wondering,” John takes a breath in and continues, “I keep wondering, how he managed to get into the flat and then into 221C. It all started there. He’s been so close. Since the beginning, all that time.” He shakes his head as if trying to make his thoughts fall in place. “He must have had a sidekick, someone he could make him in and out without being seen or reported. Hardly any break in took place.” He looks absently at Mrs. Hudson trying to think who it could be and suddenly sees her face changing, her eyebrows contracting, the corners of her mouth going down in regret.

“Oh, John, I just needed some money. And company. I had no idea.” She is straightening the pleats of her blouse, clearly embarrassed.

John sits back stressed.

“Company? What do you mean? Like, watching TV together?”

“Well…”

John startles at the realization. The next second he jumps up turning the cup down and making the saucer fall down crushing resonantly against the tile floor.

“You!? You killed Sherlock Holmes! You killed Sherlock. That was your fault.”

Mrs. Hudson is close to tears.

“I didn’t not know… John… I never…”

He keeps yelling feeling his heart thrumming heavily against his chest.

“John, John, wake up!” Mary’s standing over him patting his shoulder, her forehead is wrinkled with concern.

“What, are you back?” Watson sits up feeling like coming to the surface.

“Yes, I missed you, driven all night. Did not want you to wake up at this hour though. Are you alright?” Mary is looking at him worried.

John swallows hard, nods and goes to the bathroom under Mary’s scrutinizing gaze without saying a word. He closes the door behind himself and pushes the back of his head against it. He catches his reflection in the mirror. He looks at his pale, sweaty face. He feels he cannot deal with this alone. Time to see his therapist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to cicci783 for prompting me to write a piece of Hudriarty! (a possible ship between Jim and Mrs. Hudson, anyone?). The thing is she could be the perfect sidekick for Moriarty actually. This is just to make you smile but actually I'm worried somehow. What if... Never mind.


	10. 10. Brazil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bittersweet days in Rio de Janeiro.  
> Sherlock has a hard time processing the things that are happening between him and Jim and trying to imagine his future now.  
> There is an extradition treaty between the UK and Brazil and this is not making it any better.

“Why Brazil?” Jim puckers up watching Copacabana beach line.

Sherlock adjusts his sunglasses and takes a gulp of his beer.

“Don’t be picky, you are not in the position.”

Jim chuckles and shots him a sly smile.

“Neither you are.”

Sherlock does not show he is concerned but Jim knows underneath he is. He gives him a somewhat tender look above his Ray Bans. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, now against the law. On the international scale. Good, good, great progress, Jimmy.

“Sherlock,” Jim starts and Sherlock immediately tries to silence him, squeezing his hand lying across the table of a street cafè painfully. Jim hisses softly but continues nonetheless. “If you regret this…”

Sherlock turns to him with all his body sharply. Jim sees his slightly sunburnt face is flushing.

“Would you please stop annoying me with this dull conversation.” Jim takes off his sunglasses to enjoy Sherlock’s reaction better. He likes his detective angry.

“You can leave me, come back, now, beg for mercy…”

Sherlock’s eyes turn cold as he recognizes the familiar phrase taking him back. Jim caresses his hand with his fingers distracting him. He looks down at their hands and squeezes Jim’s palm harder, clutching the space between the thumb and the index finger so that his fingers now hold it like a pair of pliers sending a needle of pain down Jim’s wrist to the spot where his veins become clearly visible. Not a muscle of Jim’s face moves and the eye contact is never broken. Sherlock suspects after a couple of minutes Moriarty’s hand starts going seriously numb and the weakness is spreading down to reach his elbow. The bundle of nerves he is pressing on gives a torturing pain if held for a long time and he knows Jim takes it silently as punishment for his attempt to make Sherlock say some unnecessary and banal words. This is for his playing dull. He finally releases Jim’s hand when he supposes the numbness has spread over his shoulder too. He notices with grim satisfaction that Jim doesn’t move his hand immediately because obviously he is not capable to and he does not betray his physical state with a single sound and grins at Sherlock completely unchanged. Sherlock feels a little bad for being aggressive but he prefers this to the saddening thought of having little time left and an uncertain and mostly dark future lying in front of him, if any. 

* * *

Sherlock is lying in darkness next to Jim. His breath smells like cachaca and mint and coconut. His mouth was sweet because really Jim had to stop eating so much Brazilian desserts.

“But they are delicious.” He protests when Sherlock takes them and tosses them into the trash bin.

“You should really quit all these simple carbohydrates. They are potentially slowing your brain.”

Sherlock snaps the last pieces of banana cake from Jim’s hand who looks resentful as he licks the remains of the cream off his fingers.

“Stop stuffing your mouth with it”. Sherlock looks meaningfully at Jim’s waistline. Jim catches his glances.

“Do you have an alternative?” He sucks his middle finger in his mouth up completely and gives it a couple of filthy ins and outs.

Sherlock actually does. He can barely bear the absence of work here and the normality of this forced vacation so he indulges himself in all sorts of sexual activities to silence the void in his brains which Moriarty literally fucks out. He cannot really understand how come he has passed so quickly from a long abstinence to a deep addiction but that’s rather the mechanism. The surroundings do not help as Jim gets horny as hell after strolling along the beach watching some absolutely delicious boys in tight swim briefs.

“I start loving it here you know,” he drawls. “Never been on a holiday in my life.” Sherlock cannot tell if it is a lie.

What makes it even more acute is the fact that it might be the last one before a very long imprisonment.

* * *

The heavy wet heat is dazzling. Jim’s body sticks to his and he is hot inside and out. Sherlock is blindfolded and he cannot really see Jim’s expressions and he lets his mind swim away. Jim puts a sheet around his head and closes his nose and mouth with his hands making him thrust harder and Sherlock’s head is spinning and he feels sun struck and the dizziness makes it all lighter. He only wants to come drowning in Jim’s moans as his body startles under his own balancing on the edge of the orgasm. He goes absolutely mad then, now his only task is to come before he faints which is a plausible outcome. Jim underneath cries out and hot drops hit Sherlock’s stomach. His arms are betraying him and he lets it all go coming at last hard and desperate and absolutely lost. He falls on top of Jim who now leaves him breathing freely and their mouths touch across the sheet. They half-kiss half-breath into each other and Sherlock cannot think of anything better to do than to fall asleep.

And now he is awake listening to the rain hitting hard against the rooftop of their villa washing away the unbearable heat only to come back as the wettest air Sherlock has ever experienced the day after. Rain and heat. Heat and rain. Bring it to the point of melting down, then cool it down, then heat it up again. This is how Sherlock feels about his heart. He cannot ignore the fact that it is getting harder for him to resist the stupid thoughts of dull ordinary life coming to him when he feels his body starting to float as he falls asleep next to his lover. He blames his body for this. Chemical reactions are addictive, he tells himself. Expel one drug out your system and let another one into it. But it is not that easy. They never talk about things between them. No need to. Everything is clear for now.

Sherlock’s phone vibrates on the night table. A message from Mary. “1W.” He turns off the phone careful not to wake up Jim with its bluish light. He feels the air in the room provides no oxygen despite the climate control advanced system. Sherlock gets up, goes to the living room and opens the window. The fresh blast hits his chest and he sticks his upper body out of the window frame to feel rain on his skin. He lets it run down his head, massaging his neck, he tastes it. He lifts his face up and makes water pours on his eyelids soothing his swollen mind. He stays like that for some minutes and then closes the window letting drops fall on the floor and his bare feet. He slowly comes back to bed and lies down trying not to disturb Jim who promptly shifts himself to get closer to Sherlock and the touch of his thigh is hot against Sherlock’s hip.

“I thought you were gone.” Moriarty murmurs with his eyes still closed.

Sherlock grips his forearm feeling the muscles tensing up under his hand making his heart clench.

“I’m not,” he whispers mostly to himself and puts his cold and wet forehead against Jim’s hot and sticky making him shiver without retracting, “I’m not.” 

* * *

This is New Year’s Eve and Jim is electric to “go and do something stupid”.

“Like?” Sherlock is really reluctant to waste time at some crazy thing Jim is up to.

“We’ll do what all tourists do.” Sherlock chuckles darkly at the word “tourists”. Apparently Jim has not been in contact with his people for a little while.

“Don’t worry, they know how to act when I’m away. Even permanently.” Jim reassures him as they were talking about taking care of a dog while its owner is abroad. No big deal, criminals keep calm and carry on.

“When you are back, Sherlock, you will have more crimes to solve, be sure.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest.

“Sherlock, we both know your brother will have it arranged for you.” Jim’s eyes get dark and Sherlock feels something has changed between them. He pictures himself sitting in his armchair at Baker St. How much time has passed since he did so last time? He finds these thoughts make it even worse now.

“Jim,” Sherlock’s voice sounds so profound, Jim’s breath catches in his throat. “Just let us… let us be… like that… tonight.” Jim gets it perfectly. He nods in the silent promise not to come back to this topic for now.

* * *

Jim takes his hand and leads him into the crowd. Closer to the ships ready to shoot. Sherlock feels strangely protected in this crowd. Maybe because this is hard to get arrested with half Rio De Janeiro waiting for the traditional firework show. The countdown starts and Sherlock feels just like a teenager counting aloud with all the people around them. Just for this night we can be unremarkable, anonymous, absolutely drunk. At the “one” there is a charged moment and then the ships fill the skies with rainbow fires. Sherlock can’t help but smile. Jim is clinging to his side and their fingers are interlaced. He feels his hurried breath on his neck, Jim whispers him something in Portuguese. Sherlock cannot understand it but he feels his cheeks are flushed and desire starts stirring his blood mixed with alcohol.

“Just drink it.” Jim has been mixing cocktails all evening through annoying Sherlock with the lack of equipment to measure the proportions. “Not everything’s about measuring, Sherlock”, Jim handed him a suspiciously green creation. “Absinthe based.” Jim winks. “Absinthe for an absent minded gentleman.” Moriarty did notice the concerned expression Sherlock had a hard time hiding from him. So Sherlock drinks it as an apology and as a slight drug indulgence. After a while he feels higher and does not protest when Jim makes him wear a white shirt with white trousers.

And now Jim whispers and laughs and wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock gets it he is drunk and his head is light and he feels like the beach under his feet is so so distant and he kisses Jim pressing their bodies together. The kiss is mad and they are momentarily lost in space and time as the skies above them explode in millions of sparks resonating in their hearts. Someone puts a white sailor cap on Jim’s head making them break the kiss. Only when people around them start to dance they manage to drag themselves out of the beach to get a taxi.

The air is heavy and sticky; the night is blue like Jim’s suit he wore at the pool. His eyes are drunk and his smile is naughty. He adjusts his sailor cap and drinks the beer remaining in the bottle. The window of the taxi is open as they ride along the coast, the palms hanging over the famous walk. Sherlock’s arm is resting on Jim’s shoulders. He brushes away the thought of Mary’s message and the consideration of telling Jim. He tilts his head back and smiles, fireworks are still cracking in his ears. Jim turns his head so that their noses touch and “Sherlock, I…”. Sherlock kisses him in a rush of cancelling the words that are about to come, pleading him to stop it, to prevent his whole world from being turned upside down.

“Don’t spoil it.” He kisses Jim’s neck, the skin behind his ear. “As long as it lasts...”

Jim echoes him before kissing him back.

“As long as it lasts.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind it, the seasons are swapped in Brazil and it is hot as hell in winter, like 42C (107F) and it rains every night.  
> The song to accompany your reading is Electrical Storm by U2.


	11. 11. On the plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Moriarty are to be brought back to London after their arrest but things are not going according to the plan.

They come at night. Red laser dots dancing on their bodies as the people throw them down from the bed tearing apart their tangled forms. Mary was wrong. It happened one day before she predicted. They are ordered to get dressed. Moriarty is strangely quiet and compliant. Sherlock feels he is stiff and the handcuffs feel so loose around his wrists he could actually take them off. But it’s just an illusion. The people are quick and precise. No preliminary procedure before they are brought to the plane and accompanied by two officers to their seats, their hands are covered with clothes flipped over their arms to cover the fact they are actually criminals under arrest.

Jim does not say a word smiling his insolent smile as usual. He looks like he could die now and the grin would never leave his lips. He does not talk, he does not even look at Sherlock who is seeking his eyes subconsciously.

_Dog days are over._

Though Jim eats. As soon as he knows he won’t be treated nicely in prison he gets his meal with pleasure now. 11 hours of flight and not a chance to sleep as Sherlock’s legs do not fit into the space between the chairs.

“Sorry, no business class tickets were available.” The officer accompanying him scoffs clearly pleased with himself. Sherlock is trying to imagine what is going to happen in London. The fact their extradition has been this quick and silent means Mycroft has been involved directly. Sherlock darts a glance at Jim sitting across the aisle eating pasta making his cover deliberately slip off his wrists to give the officer extra hard time trying to put it back in place. Jim sucks in a piece of spaghetti with a noisy sound and gives Sherlock a very playful look. Sherlock does not touch his food. The only substance he would need now in his system is not available. Jim licks the tomato sauce off his lips and Sherlock startles thinking of what they would do with him once he is in Mycroft’s hands. He feels his body is aching at the thought of Jim’s body being marred. He gets it he has grown used to him as he is used to his clothes and personal possessions. He wants it neat and nice. He’s never been romantic in a traditional sense of the word and he would never use this word in relation to anything regarding the two of them. It has a disparaging quality when pronounced by him. He feels angry, he feels powerless, a runaway puppet brought home against his will to keep playing in a performance which is not his own anymore.

After nearly 9 hours Moriarty asks to be escorted to the lavatory and the officer complies reluctantly. Exiting the door Jim almost crashes against a tall very fit man and their bodies touch for a short second. While the man apologizes Moriarty scans him slowly bottom to top and there is a sparkle of interest in his eyes. Sherlock who has been watching the scene with intensity can’t feel but shudder irritated by the fact. Jim immediately checks on his expression which Sherlock does not manage to control in time. He is thinking of how his life has changed since Jim walked into it giving a fantomatic presence a physical shape. He thinks of what it will become once the presence is gone.

Jim sits back and pulls a serious face ignoring Sherlock. Okay, so the game must be over. Sherlock feels like there is a switch inside him he should find to turn it off, to simply turn it off, stop letting it clouding his mind, keep it clear, keep…

“Keep still! All of you!” The man Jim has just crossed in the aisle is now standing in front of them holding a long rifle. He nods to somebody behind Sherlock and he cautiously try to turn back. There must be another man. There is a muffled noise of people starting to murmur, someone is nearly fainting. A baby starts crying.

“Hey, you,” the man is talking to Sherlock, “I said still,” he grips his rifle tighter, “which part of it you didn’t get?”

While he is scrutinizing Sherlock the officer accompanying Jim stands up.

“We don’t want victims. Just tell us what you need.” The officer holds his gun unsure to cock it.

“We are already talking to the pilots.” The man smiles coldly. “Explaining them what we want.”

“We will all die here!” Jim suddenly screams desperate. “Please, don’t kill us! Please!” only to be hit across the face with the gun handle by the officer. In the first second Sherlock thinks Moriarty has gone crazy but then he realizes Richard Brook is back. Good. This is not boring any longer. Jim shuts up and furtively gives Sherlock a coy look wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Blood is smeared over the middle of his mouth. Strangely it fits his face.

“That was rude.” The man behind Sherlock drawls. Sherlock now clearly gets it that he has German accent. Interesting. Could it be a hint on what they want. Will they make the plane land in Germany.

“Very bad. We don’t like rude people.” The first man stares at the officer for a second and them shoots him cold. He falls down almost kicking Jim’s shoulder who pushes him away in panic.

He lifts his hands and Sherlock sees the handcuffs have been unlocked. Must have fished the key out of the officer’s pocket.

The officer who is accompanying him is making a move to take off his gun and Sherlock whispers to him.

“Don’t. Bad idea. ”

The officer shots him a hateful look.

“What, are you involved with them?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Drop the gun.” The terrorist’s voice is calm. Sherlock is trying to get how many of them are on the plane. Must be 4 or 5, two in the cabin, two controlling the pilots. Probably another one. Must have somebody among the crew.

 A little hesitant, the officer points his gun at Sherlock.

“Make the plane take its usual route or he will die.”

“I don’t think so, love.” Moriarty stands up keeping the late officer’s gun. “But I’m sure you will.” And he shoots the second officer.

There is an utter panic starting. Sherlock hears people crying, someone is fainting, somebody else is praying. Sherlock cannot really get how this can help their current situation. Stupid people unable to control their emotions.

In this moment the captain’s voice fills the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to announce we are going to land in Vienna in a while. Please, stay at your seats.”

Surprised murmurs and singular shouts are heard. No London then?

“Taking a little detour.” Moriarty steps into the aisle playing with his gun. Everybody he looks at remain frozen to their seats. There is a manic gleaming in his eyes which do not stop at anybody but Sherlock who gives him a shocked look which vanishes quickly. Well. Hijacking a plane to avoid the imprisonment in England is pretty much Jim’s style.

Sherlock feels strangely impressed and proud. Moriarty gives him a piercing glance and then moves on with his speech.

“We don’t want other corpses today. Please, behave and you will all walk out of this plane in a while. We have just lent it for this flight. Enjoyed your company. Hope you’ve enjoyed ours. Excuse me I have to go and thank the pilots.”

Sherlock is calculating the probability of them shooting the pilots. Or have they already? He wonders what is going to happen when they are released. Will Jim want to come with him?

When the successful landing is over terrified people are let out of the plane Sherlock stays glued to his seat. He looks out of the window. Police, ambulance, reporters.

Jim shows up from the cabin and looks questioningly at Sherlock who is still wearing handcuffs having not managed to find the key on the late officer. Jim approaches him slowly pointing his gun at the chain. Sherlock pulls out his hands in a slow gesture. The bullet hits the pavement between his feet. Sherlock startles impulsively but supresses the sounds in his throat. He lifts his head to watch in Jim’s blank face.

“Go. Lose yourself in the crowd. Escape.” They eyes meet and Sherlock is amazed at how dark Moriarty’s eyes are.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I have an unfinished business here.”

“I stay.” Sherlock pauses. “If you want me to.”

“Afraid of being caught?”

“I am afraid of nothing.”

Jim gives him a very strange look which Sherlock cannot decipher. He feels excited and frightened at the same time. How imprudent is it giving Jim a carte blanche now? What will he do to scare Sherlock?

“Okay”.

Jim talks to one of his guys without turning his head at him.

“Tell the police we have a hostage now. Besides all other things.”

The guy nods and then he is gone.

Jim is totally calm like as if he were not committing another hideous crime.

“No need to play gentleman, but I appreciate your attempt at saving my reputation and making me look like a hostage. You’re such an actor, you could not resist putting on an act.”

“Did not want him to shoot me from a short distance. Chances were he would not have missed my head. Besides, it’s just so much fun, Sherlock. Too bad it can’t last forever.”

Jim goes away again leaving Sherlock still sitting there. His feet vibrate of tension. In a while the plane lands off again and then they are brought to some small airport outside the city. Jim reappears after the landing.

“Come.” He makes a gesture to Sherlock who comes outside to get into a car waiting for them. He says nothing while they are driven away.

“Could bet you’d come,” Jim drawls, “the game is over. Now that I have you Mycroft will do anything I tell him to. Direct orders save so much time, you know.”

Sherlock chuckles and makes himself comfortable on the seat.

“You’ve already had me.”

Jim’s expression turns salacious.

“Oh, I did.”

“Don’t tell me that was business.”

“Why? Wasn’t it for you?”

Sherlock turns back to the origin of their current situation: Mycroft’s mission to seduce Jim to keep him under control and eventually drive him suicidal, staging his own suicide eventually. A double plan designed to keep them apart making Sherlock believe Jim was gone for good which resulted in their heavily criminal affair.

“Initially…” Sherlock gives Jim a “you- know-how-it-was” look.

“Well, Sherlock, some people manage to combine business and pleasure. I know you’ve tried to hack my computer more than once. Did you manage to pass some data to Mycroft which helped him eliminate part of my web?” Jim is toying with the gun, making it slide down Sherlock’s chest, pressing its tip against his heart and starting to pull the trigger.

“I am with you.”

“Prove it.” Jim’s voice betraying no emotion makes Sherlock cold on the inside. His heart gives a long painful pump. He is seeking a hint of a joke in Jim’s eyes. This cannot be just business. It never was for him and he is sure neither for Jim.

“You can do anything you like with me.” He says at last. His lips are dry. Moriarty looks at him as if studying a thing to buy pondering over its price and usefulness. He shifts closer and his eyes are now mere inches away from Sherlock’s, their noses almost touch. Sherlock is stupidly tempted to brush Moriarty’s nose with the tip of his own in a usual caress but he keeps still feeling the vibration of Jim’s tensed body controlling himself even harder than Sherlock is.

“Aren’t you afraid of yourself?”

Sherlock actually is. But he supposes this is part of it. Once you start falling you cannot stop it.


	12. 12. Austria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a chance to prove his feelings for Jim in a special way.

Sherlock’s shallow sleep stops abruptly when Jim sitting on the edge of the bed turns on the light. He has not been sleeping with him, he was away. On the night before when they were brought to yet another highly protected location Sherlock was freed from his broken handcuffs by one of Moriarty’s guards and then escorted to a lavish room which felt like never used and kept such just for the sake of it.

Jim is wearing a chic evening outfit and his hair are combed back as usual. He likes the way Sherlock’s bare back arches when he props himself up a little shifting his position to see his lover better.

“Get dressed.”

“That’s not what you usually say.”

Moriarty chuckles and there is a filthy sparkle in his eyes.

“There will be time for this later.”

Sherlock notices a black number and a white shirt waiting for him over the armchair. Shiny shoes are placed next to it.

“Don’t tell me you are bringing me to an opera house.”

“Honey, that’s not “Pretty Woman”.

 “Sorry, what?”

“Forget it.”

“I’ve just made an assumption that as soon as we are in Vienna...”

“Oh, Sherlock, would not it be banal? We have a different kind of event to attend tonight.” He pulls the blanket off Sherlock’s body revealing it completely. “Now get ready.” He does not try to hide his delight watching Sherlock leave the bed and cross the room heading to take a shower not bothering to get wrapped in a sheet.

* * *

They are driven to a pompous ancient mansion. Before they get out of the car Moriarty makes Sherlock wear a cape with a hood which only has holes for his eyes and mouth and a split on the front. Sherlock makes no questions. While they cross a long alley lined with flames Moriarty whispers to Sherlock his instructions.

“Needless to say you should pay all the attention possible. Tonight you will get keys to so many doors. No binary code is needed when you have what you will see now. Watch, listen, remember all you can. You will have the world on its knees if you are smart enough.”

Sherlock takes Jim’s hand and he lets him to do so squeezing it in response.

Sherlock is led to a dark spacious hall only lit with lots candles. People around him, presumably all of them are men, are wearing masks and capes. But Sherlock can hear their voices, he sees their hands and shoes and their eyes. He catalogues every detail. Chances are he might meet these people again one day, maybe in London, and he will recognize them. And will be able to use it for his needs. This is how Moriarty controls them all. A secret society. Brilliant. A huge international organization where everybody keeps a dark secret. What could they possibly be involved in? Moriarty leads him to a balcony hanging over the main floor. An organ starts playing and the sound is vibrating through the air echoing in the high vaults. Sherlock is pretty much amazed to see Jim is being handed some kind of a crown he puts on. His face is revealed while everybody else stays masked. Jim is clearly enjoying it, his movements are solemn and his voice is powerful when he starts speaking.

“Listen all. Tonight we are here to greet a new member.” A ray of light suddenly casts over Sherlock and he startles involuntarily. He is trying to reassure himself with the fact he is protected with a mask just like anybody else in here.

The members greet him with the raised right hand. Sherlock thinks this is odd how all societies have similar rituals. Nothing is new under the sun.

“A very special member.” Moriarty’s voice is solemn and full of anticipation. “A member who is needed to be initiated.”

Before Sherlock manages to think of the way to escape two men grip his arms firmly preventing him from struggling. Sherlock has to admit this would be rather pointless as everybody would eventually turn against him. He is trying to guess what is coming feeling his forehead staring to sweat under his hood. Moriarty flings his cape open and lowers the side of his waistband pulling his shirt up. Sherlock shivers and tries to get away but the grip on his upper body leaves him no chance to do so. The air tickles his exposed hip.

“Let the initiation begin!” Jim looks at him and Sherlock sees the reflections of lit candles in his eyes. _Do you trust me_? Sherlock makes an effort and nods. He has already given his consent to anything. He still feels physically uncomfortable as the vague sensation of imminent pain is however written in the very core of his mind.

In terror Sherlock watches as Moriarty is brought a metal case. He recognized it. Here we go. Finally he will see what is inside. Jim opens it and takes a metal stamp out of it. Then he is brought a flaming goblet to heat it up. When it is red-hot Moriarty is given a special glove to take the incandescent marking stamp out of it. Sherlock startles fiercely at the sight of it and watches horrified the object approach his hip bone. When Jim pushes it against his skin which feels ice cold and burning at the same time Sherlock clenches his teeth and suppresses a whimper. He will not cry, he will not produce a sound. Moriarty is drinking into the sight of his contorted expression and Sherlock is looking unflinchingly in the very depth of his completely insane eyes. Jim takes off the stamp slowly and the flush of air flooding the burnt skin makes Sherlock inhale deeply to steady his heart rhythm. The spot is itchy, Sherlock senses the dizzying smell of the scorched flesh. His lips are trembling but he brings himself to look down shaking off the men who step back as they do not need to hold him any longer. Sherlock pulls the edge of his shirt up and stares at the red mark. It reads “M”. Shocked, he lifts his head to meet Moriarty’s gaze who is electrified. He looks completely insane and genuinely happy right now.

The organ hits a new grotesque melody. Sherlock cannot see Moriarty’s pupils swallowed by his irises.

“Welcome to my world.”

* * *

 

“Fancy some champaign?” Sherlock takes an expensive bottle from the ice bucket and studies the label.

“Champaign. Oysters. Nuclear secrets. Everything’s on the menu.”

They are back to their covert and Moriarty is checking something on his laptop grinning with satisfaction.

“Donations have been extraordinary tonight.”

“So this is how you make money: make them pay to keep their secrecy.”

“Just because they want to believe it.” Jim closes the laptop really pleased.

“Oh, Sherlock, isn’t it fabulous?” He stands up stretching his arms, a perfect picture of triumph.

“Money. What else?”

“Their DNA.” He takes a flute from Sherlock’s hand and they clink their glasses.

“Do you make them sign with their blood as they enter?” Sherlock tastes the champaign and makes it linger in his mouth. Excellent.

“Almost.” Moriarty gets close and Sherlock embraces him with one hand grinding himself lightly against Jim which earns him a playful look. “But I can’t tell you everything at once. Oh, you’re so greedy when it comes to knowledge. Made your deductions? Recognized somebody?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock is not willing to give away it all even if he actually did recognize some people and deduced a handful of others. He is pretty pleased with himself. Jim is clearly euphoric tonight. He is visibly aroused, his mouth is reddish. He gives Sherlock an extremely hungry look, waiting. Sherlock sizes him up getting closer. Moriarty gently puts his hand over Sherlock’s trousers fly. His fingers grip Sherlock’s hardening length. Everything Jim does to him know has a slightly new sense. As if the reality shifted and Sherlock has fallen deeper than he did before.

“I think we have a problem here.”

“Dear Jim, will you fix it for me?” Sherlock looks down and Jim opens the garment and pulls Sherlock towards the bed.

“Naturally.”

That night they take it slowly. Liquid electricity is flowing between their bodies. Sherlock feels a little dizzy and the burning mark on his skin makes his whole being more sensitive. Jim’s touch is charged and possessive.

Jim’s head is lying on Sherlock’s stomach whose fingers play lazily with Jim’s hair. Moriarty takes an ice cube from the champaign bucket and passes it over the mark on Sherlock’s hipbone. It is swollen and red, the letter stands out on the pale skin and the bone under protrudes deliciously. Sherlock hisses a little but the cold soothes the pain and he lets Jim touch it lightly.

“What does M stand for? Masonry? Moriarty?” Sherlock’s thumb touches his bottom lip and Jim bites it slowly, his mad eyes are flashing happily.

“Mine.”

* * *

 

Mycroft stands over his brother’s naked body sleeping a deep drugged sleep on the luxurious bed. His people have already taken away narcotized Moriarty. He casts a quick glance at the empty champaign bottle. In the end it was easy.

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes up because he is cold. He feels his body is shivering uncontrollably and he pulls a blanket over himself. He is still naked. He checks the clock. It’s almost 3 p.m. How come he has slept for so long? Where is Jim? He turns to lie on the right side and ouches as the marked skin rubs against the fine cloth. He feels the scar tissue starting to form and his skin is tightening . He calls out.

“Jim?”

No sound of running water, no sound at all. By the way where are his clothes? Sherlock leaves the bed and inspects the room. Nothing. Not a sign of Moriarty’s presence. He can’t believe Jim could have left him just like that. He gets dressed and takes care not to touch the aching spot with his clothes. He presses his palm over it. The skin is warm and pulsing under his touch. His eyes run around the room checking the details. He is almost sure he knows where Moriarty might have been gone and when he sees the flowers rearranged in the vase he knows exactly where. Mycroft really should do something about his obsession with order. The question is why he left Sherlock here. Sherlock feels this is going to be some twister sort of vengeance and he swallows hard at the thought of what it could be. He needs to find Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made an assumption Sherlock has never watched "Pretty Woman."


	13. 13. Somewhere in a secret governmental prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft confronts Moriarty who is now his prisoner again.

“Has he said anything important?” the officer shakes his head a little guilty. Days and days of interrogations produced no result to be proud of.

The picture on the screen is greenish and a little blurred in the corners where the darkness concentrates. Mycroft looks at the prisoner sitting still on a hard chair. He can barely see his chest move under a scruffy uniform. He has been beaten and deprived of sleep for days. Most certainly he is on the edge and is going to start talking business soon. As soon as they have tried all means for now but Jim displayed no reaction to any Mycroft guesses the last one is left and this could be a wedge. They only thing Moriarty can potentially care is a certain detective who has gone on the loose leaving dirty traces all over the world in his rampant quest to join his rivaling lover and gain his approval pissing his big brother more than usual. And now that he has lost his criminal star he must be upset, going to do stupid things again. Meanwhile Jim certainly does not know where Sherlock is and how he is doing. Pressure points.

Mycroft makes a sign to the guard meaning: a private visit. He opens the door and immediately senses a heavy animal smell in the air: pain.

Jim manages to lift his chin even if it is clear that it costs him an enormous effort. The view makes Mycroft twist his lips in disgust. He ordered them not to touch his face, his head in general. Brain damage would be intolerable for their purposes but what they did to him made Jim look like a greyish ghost. The way he sizes Mycroft up and studies his green checked suit with hardly hidden mockery tells Mycroft his personality can only be destroyed together with his body.

“I thought waterboarding was out of usage for now. But it seems like your taste in torture is as obsolete as your taste in clothes”. Unsurprisingly enough, Jim manages to be sarcastic even if his lungs still hurt when he breaths in.

Mycroft stops as he closes the door behind him. He has made turn off the cameras so that everything that is going to happen will stay between them two.

He approaches Moriarty slowly, measuring every step.

“They said you have hallucinated.”

Jim’s face stiffens.

“Started rambling.”

Mycroft taps his fingers on the metallic table.

“Saying things.”

He lifts his eyebrow meaningfully.

Jim chuckles and his lip splits at the stretch. Mycroft can’t help staring at the red blob forming at the angle of his mouth. “Spitting out governmental secrets to those dogs of yours. Want to take a risk and see how loyal they are? This is boring.” Moriarty’s voice is fading but the mocking tone cannot be mistaken. “Will we please finish this dance. I know why you came.”

Mycroft folds his arms.

“Want to talk about your brother? Weren’t you surprised to see him on the loose? Must be so bitter to see your little genius waste it all for an ounce of excitement.”

“It has never been a secret to me. You could not tell my anything new about him”. Mycroft smiles patronizingly.

“Wanna bet?”

“You think you’ve got something special. You think there was more than a game, more than his eternal pointless rebellion.”

Moriarty slowly shakes his head with satisfaction watching Mycroft’s face growing worried against his will.

“Of course, Sherlock would not be so stupid to believe there could be anything but business between you and him. It’s always interest with you.”

Jim studies his face for a long minute. And there is something new in his voice when he speaks.

“Tut-tut. This is your blind spot. You can’t get it, can you? Can’t accept the fact your brother is not the same as you. You are so worried about your heart of ice. A slightest touch and it could start melting.”

“You think you’re special but the truth is Sherlock’s heart is locked up. You have only opened his trousers, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well, if this is not special…”

“He was just bored. And you have just taken your chance. If only you did care – which is impossible for you – you would have never dragged him into this run.”

“Caring. You assume no one cares because you can’t. Big mistake. Oh, you do know how much he enjoyed our little adventure. The fact he enjoyed it that much bothers you possibly more than anything else. Besides I gave him the ultimate weapon by introducing him to the circle of my… friends. He is almost untouchable now. In return, he knows more than you would like him to know. I bet he did recognize some of people you have direct interest in among the guests at that little party in Vienna.”

“Funny how the taste for drama seems to be contagious.”

Mycroft examines Jim’s sharpened face with disdain.

“Exchanging liquids… you know.” Jim’s face suddenly lights up with a lusty grin.

“This is your common problem: you two think this is all theatre while it is not.”

Jim pulls a shocked face.

“The curtain does not fall leaving you on stage in a spotlight. Time bites back and makes you pay for your mistakes. Sherlock has made enough false steps to come back on his knees and beg me to be forgiven. Not that it could help though.”

Mycroft brushes the invisible dust off his jacket. Jim follows his movements with a heavy gaze.

“Beg you? That’s what you want, don’t you?”

The expression of Jim’s face is suddenly full of realization.

Mycroft’s hand pauses for a while and then drops. He does not feel comfortable with this sudden psychoanalysis.

“This is not about me.”.

Mycroft is almost tempted to leave mostly to stop being so frustrated and irritated by these venomous talk.

“But it could be…”

Moriarty abruptly falls down on his knees at Mycroft’s feet with a muffled knock. Mycroft imagines new bruises on Jim’s knees. Who knows how many of them he already has under his clothes. The image of him getting undressed to be inspected hits right at Mycroft’s taint. He feels a nasty inner vibration as if a string inside his cock was plucked. Jim’s forehead touches Mycroft’s back of the hand making him freeze. Jim’s skin is cold and sticky against Mycroft’s warm and dry. The contact makes Mycroft shiver and want to step back despite his heart gives a painful beat.

He looks down at Jim’s messy hair, the vertebrae on his bent neck protrude under his thin skin. How he would like to run his fingers long this line of bumps, to feel the weak heat of this marred flesh, to count the pulse making the bluish vein flutter…

“Do it. Make me beg,” Jim’s voice is hoarse and it seems is coming from the very core of his body.

Mycroft’s mouth goes dry.

Moriarty lifts his face and his eyes are shadowed. The angles of his hollow cheeks with rough bristle, his charcoal eyebrows, the contour of his lips, the collarbone in the slit of the t-shirt ripped open are too obviously attractive and leave no time for him to pretend that he does not notice nor like them.

Mycroft swallows hard and Jim bites his lip meaningfully following the movement of his Adam’s apple.

Mycroft can’t help but open his palm to make Jim’s cheek nestle to it. He feels the traitorous warmth washing over his stomach as Jim makes a slight movement leaning into the touch.

“Don’t you want to order me? Isn’t it what is natural for you?” Jim’s whisper tickles Mycroft’s palm. Mycroft’s breath goes shallow as he imagines Jim’s tongue touching his skin.

“Do it…” Jim certainly reads his thoughts. Not that it is particularly hard.

Mycroft puts his hand on Jim’s head guiding it towards his crotch. With the other hand he is ready to unzip his trousers.

“You can order me. You can do anything you like…”

Mycroft tilts his head back with his eyelids half-shut already savouring the moment which is about to come. This is not breaking any rule, anyway it will stay between them two… He feels Jim’s hot breath across the fabric. His erection is heavy and impatient to be freed.

The sound of Jim’s voice is like electricity to his nerves.

“You can get it. You can get anything. You can have anybody. You can have me.”

Mycroft strokes himself through his clothes, he feels it coming. The moment. Finally.

“Though you will never get what Sherlock got...”

Moriarty’s voice almost fades away.

Mycroft’s eyes flow open. The hot flow in his body turns cold and he feels a hollowness growing in his back. This bastard…

He grips Jim’s hair and pushes his head back with force sending him off balance. Moriarty falls on his side unable to support himself as his hand are in cuffs. Hitting his shoulder and hip against the hard floor is certainly painful and Mycroft enjoys this thought. Especially seeing Jim’s mouth stretched in a silent laugh.

He feels his skin tighten with rage. He is tempted to hit him harder, feel his flesh cringe under his heels but he knows he cannot allow himself this. Too much of a contact. Besides, he’d like to watch.

Trying to control the irritating weakness in his knees as he makes a step, Mycroft heads to the door.

The last thing he sees closing it is Jim’s blissful mad grin. The darkness swallows him as Mycroft closes the door.

Outside he gives instructions to the guard.

“I think we can increase the physical impact for the purpose of making the prisoner more complaint.”


	14. 14. Meanwhile in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary gets a request which might interfere with her quiet life with John and which certainly is against the job she has been doing for Mycroft.   
> Lestrade and Molly have a bitter conversation.

Mary is in the kitchen cooking dinner when her spare mobile vibrates in one of the drawers. She instinctively knows whose number it is before she sees it.

“You can’t call me like that,” she whispers angry and worried at the same time.

“I know. I’m sorry Mary,” Sherlock’s voice cracks, his breath is not really steady, he hesitates for a moment, “it is an emergency.”

“Sherlock…” she is trying to speak as low as she can even though John can’t hear here from the sitting room.

“I’ve got no one else to ask.”

She can almost see how he swallows. Must be hard to admit. She is somewhat pleased and bothered with the knowledge of being capable to do something others cannot.

“Tell me.”

“I am alone. I am alone and I fear this must be permanent.”

“Did he leave?”

“Not because it was his will.”

Mary nods to herself. Right. How painful it must be to acknowledge the slightest possibility of having been dumped. But she supposes Sherlock is far too rational to indulge himself with illusions so he must have reasonable grounds to believe Jim has not just decided the game did not amuse him anymore.

“And now I am here and he is… I don’t know where. And I cannot know that as long as I stay here.”

“Okay, Sherlock. I will try to. But please understand…”

“Yes, I know, this is the last time.”

“Definitely.”

“Thank you Mary.”

“Too early to say thank you.”

She hangs up and puts potatoes into the oven covering them with a foil and wraps a piece of it around the cell phone after having turned it off. Better take precautions.

* * *

John wakes up at night and sits up shaking. It takes him some seconds to calm down enough to be able to switch on the lamp on the night table. Vague nightmares are recurrent but still hurt as hell. The dead Sherlock covered in his blood and vomit pushing John down the edge of a high building. Bloodied Sherlock looking down at him as he is dying. Happy Sherlock walking away with Moriarty leaving John dead on the ground. Disturbed by the light Mary wakes up too. She looks into John’s face and her heart clutches. She strokes his back soothingly.

John is staring at the invisible spot in front of him and his voice is unsteady.

“I’m getting paranoid. I can’t believe people now, you know. I keep thinking what if everybody who surrounds me is involved in some kind of conspiracy. A game. It’s too much.”

Mary holds him, pressing her cheek against his cheek and caressing his head placing small kisses all over his face.

“I do not know what I would be doing without you.” He returns her kisses and his skin is cold against hers. “You’re my only hope,” he whispers.

Mary hugs him tight to hold him and calm him down and to hide her face. Mostly to hide her face. She kisses him hard and turns off the lights pulling him down on the bed.

After sex John falls asleep immediately as she is caressing his hair with her slow fingers. His smell is so familiar now. It feels like something clinging to her very mind. It’s not the first time she has to lull a man to sleep. In all senses. But it’s the first time she wants to stay after. Take care of him. A caretaker.

A nurse. A red cross. Of blood. Mary can’t close her eyes that night.

* * *

Mary straights down her blouse under Mycroft’s inspecting gaze.

“Definitely blonde is better.”

He gives her a pleasing smile which she does not believe for a second and returns it in the same fashion.

“I might want to withdraw soon.”

Mycroft sits down and tilts his head to the side like an owl.

“Unable to bear him any longer?”

Mary leans back. She feels completely at ease in this very classic environment despite the fact her jeans and trainers clash with everything in it.

“Quite the contrary.”

There is a long pause when Mycroft studies Mary’s attentively.

“I only want to finish the mission. I suppose it can be called completed for now. He is stabilized. Going on well. Working, sleeping for the most part of the night, seeing his therapist.”

“So now that he is fixed you want to keep him for yourself.”

Mary nods. Well, put it that way.

“I have a feeling he is going to propose soon.”

Mycroft interlaces his fingers over his knee.

“I see. Trivial.”

Mary gives him a strange look. She must be offended by his comment but there is a peaceful content on her face. Their eyes lock and Mycroft is the first to look away.

“Well. Then good luck with your new life.”

Mary smiles with the corner of her lips. The emphasis of “new” is very meaningful and she can’t help but get alarmed deep in her core. To percept the imperceptible, she is so good at it.

“I think there is no need to remind you that all the details of the agreement should forever stay confidential. You know what happens otherwise.” Mycroft smiles at her but his eyes are cold. Mary is not surprised but tenses momentarily nonetheless.

“Yes.”

She stands up ready to leave. She walks towards the door feeling lighter than 10 minutes ago.

“And Mary,” Mycroft it seems is looking through her, his voice is falling a little, “I don’t believe people like us can ever retire completely.”

* * *

“Let me buy you a drink.”

Molly almost jumps hearing a familiar voice behind her back. The bar is noisy but she cannot be mistaken. A pretty drunk familiar voice to tell all the truth. She turns around only to see Lestrade lifting his glass with an unsteady hand.

“Be my Valentine, will you? Oh, wait. You have not returned my calls. Got it.”

Greg’s grinning but his eyes are a bit sad. They snap her whole silhouette in a tight dress.

“Look great. Hope you’re having fun tonight.”

Molly does not really know where to look. The bartender calls her out as her drink is ready. She is happy to get her hands busy mixing it with a straw.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Greg is trying to catch her eye and it makes her produce an awkward parody of a smile.

“Look…” she adjusts her hair nervously noticing Lestrade’s shirt suits his skin tone. Still attractive.

Greg can’t help it. He needs some answer.

“That’s not about me, it’s about you. Right? I thought it was left as an excuse for those who are still 18.”

Molly shakes her head, she really can’t find the right words.

“Okay, no need to explain. I pretty much know whom it is really about.” Lestrade scratches the back of his head. He shrugs his shoulders bitterly. “I just… just why do you need to… I mean… he’s not there anymore.” Molly casts her eyes up and there is something in them Lestrade cannot read.

Molly’s expression changes as he seems someone entering the bar and it hurts Greg to understand she is excited.

He turns around taking a gulp of his beer only to see a tall slender guy with ruffled hair in a long coat pacing up towards Molly.

“Oh. Come on!!!” Lestrade really can’t believe his eyes.

“Tom!” as she passes by Lestrade to meet her date she whispers “I’m sorry” and squeezes his hand lightly.

Greg is glad alcohol is so available because he needs a lot.

 


	15. 15. The Ending

“Want to call your people to make me speak and reveal where he is gone?”

Mycroft looks at him as if evaluating the possibility.

Sherlock meets his gaze with cool calm. In any case he would not be able to tell because he does not know. Only Mary does as he explicitly asked her not to tell him. Ignorance is bliss.

“Your next mission will be your punishment, Sherlock.”

Sherlock just scoffs, nothing can upset him now. Knowing Jim is free and possibly very far from here is the best knowledge now.

“Serbia. This could be your last one.”

Mycroft studies his expression which is a usual “I-am-so-annoyed-by-your-presence” look.

“Thank God. Then you’ll leave me in peace.”

“Well, probably yes, resting in peace. You should know, brother mine, not every time you can resurrect.”

“We will all die one day, Mycroft.”

Mycroft freezes for a second as if processing that.

“Well, sure. But I would not rush things. Unlike you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes as if letting him know the conversation is over for him.

Mycroft sits down a bit too close to his brother who shifts back on the sofa. His whisper is poisonous but Sherlock is trying to ignore it.

“What’s wrong with you, Sherlock? Can’t help living a safe life, can you? Always addicted, drugs, danger, Moriarty. You can’t stop, can’t hold yourself, can’t see the limit.”

“What’s the point of stopping? There will be no other chance.” Sherlock looks him straight in the eye. “No heaven to go and fix the things. We will rot and become nothing. I guess you do know that.”

Mycroft gives him a look full of pity. Blind in his obstinacy.

“I am not going to spend my heartbeats on dull things. I may not have many years left but I want them exciting.”

“Want to burn them?”

Sherlock twitches. Mycroft stands up and approaches the window looking outside. He prefers it this way so that Sherlock cannot see his expression.

“That’s what he did to you, Sherlock. He does keep his promises. Addict. Always an addict, Sherlock. In everything you do.

“If you care so much about me staying alive then stop annoying me to death.”

Mycroft does not reply.

Sherlock closes his eyes again. On the inside of his eyelids there is a flashback unrolling.

* * *

The light from the corridor is like a knife to his inflamed eyes slitting the eye balls.

The inflicted torture has clouded his brain but in the thick fog of falling in and out of a shallow sleep there is a red pulsing dot helping him to focus. Staying alive.

“Oh, another one. Can I touch your truncheon?”

The man who entered the room lifts up his chin and the familiar icy eyes flash at Jim from under the peak of the uniform cap. His voice is low but it still resonates and the sound is comforting.

“Certainly. But not here.”

Moriarty twitches and his split mouth slowly forms a grin. He moves his shoulders and neck in a long painful stretch trying to get a better view of his visitor against the painfully full of light opening of the door. He is like a night animal feeling the presence with all his skin more than seeing it with his eyes. The cheerful madness is gone from his face. His eyelids are swollen with dark circles around them. When he opens his eyes it’s a sick oily look, like that of a dog which has not been fed and left outside in a storm Sherlock thinks. Jim’s right arm is hanging unnaturally, his elbow is twisted in a sickening manner. Sherlock tries not to make the observations fill his brain with rage because he has so little time he cannot spend it on getting furious.

He closes the distance between them and kneels down to open Jim’s cuffs and lift him up from the chair. Their faces touch as Sherlock takes the cuffs off Jim’s bruised wrists. He can’t stop himself from giving a furtive caress to his lover’s arms, the skin is breached under his fingertips, the elbows are scratchy. Jim does not seem to bat his lashes trying to remember every pore on Sherlock’s face. As he helps him stand up he feels that Jim’s ribs are more prominent now under his scruffy tee, a couple of them are broken. Sherlock feels their uneven edges under his hands, the spots of hits are swollen. His throat clenches for an instant.

“It takes a Holmes to lock me up and it takes another Holmes to set me free.”

Moriarty pulls a grin which reminds Sherlock of the first time they met.

“Will you ever learn to shut up?” Sherlock is checking him with concern. If only he was a doctor. Jim is not standing quite upright clinging to Sherlock. He can feel his heart beating hard. He holds him close, and a hint of the familiar smell now covered with sickening ill mist sends him kissing Jim behind the ear. Jim grips to his shoulders, the pale fingers squeezing the cloth of his uniform.

“You have 13 minutes before they know. The corridor is free now but it’s not a permanent condition.”

Sherlock inhales the smell of Jim’s skin. Metallic, stinging, covering the smell he is used to. If only he could feel it again one day.

“Then what?”

Jim’s intonation is not even that of a question. The future lays in thick darkness just as his mind does. Sleep. He needs to sleep.

Sherlock’s hands freeze on him for a second. The pressure of his fingertips is hard against Moriarty’s aching skin but he wants it like this to remember this touch.

“Go now. There is someone waiting outside. She’ll help.”

Jim lifts his head to look at Sherlock. They stare intensely at each other. There is a shadow cast over Sherlock’s face and Jim thinks this is not just his cape.

He is thinner than he was but he looks healthy. His mouth is warm and it tastes like coffee. Jim tries not to close his eyes because really he might fall asleep like this. They press their bodies closer together and from a deep well of exhaustion something vaguely resembling desire rises and its weak pulse counts seconds for Jim. He is suspended between light and darkness and the moment the kiss happens he knows he has crossed the line. Just like Sherlock did before. Only their directions are opposite. But meanwhile they cross the bridge spanning between the two sides they connect for a brief moment and this is what equilibrium feels like. This is something Jim never knew but now it seems like he can feel it. This is a flash moment when he is a child in a meadow running towards the breaking day and the air is inebriatingly fresh and vibrating with moist and the sounds of awakening. It tingles his skin, it fills his lungs, it makes him want to laugh.

Jim’s kiss leaves a metallic taste on Sherlock’s tongue. It’s dry, it’s hot like a coal, it’s febrile. His longer bristle makes it weird. Sherlock’s hand gets under his t-shirt and glides up his back, following the accentuated lines of his spine and then down to the waist tracing the back dimples. Jim startles fiercely when Sherlock sticks his gun under the waist of his trousers. The cold arm feels like fire to his tired skin. He grabs the gun with his left better functioning hand over Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it hard. Their kiss breaks. Jim can hear the alarm starting to squeal, maybe it is only in his head. Sherlock gives a small nod as to say “go”.

As Jim heads towards the door Sherlock calmly sits down in the chair where he found Jim. Moriarty turns around and holds on for a second watching him. His mouth moves producing no sound but Sherlock reads his lips and he can’t hide a half-grin.

“I.O.U.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm under your spell  
> Pulled me in, took me down with your poisonous touch  
> You brought me to hell  
> Watch me burn with a fever that I love so much  
> You're watching me crawl  
> I get your kicks, take your fist  
> Put it right through the wall  
> The drug that I crave  
> You're so clever, you're the devil  
> Watch it slip it away
> 
> See I don't know what it is  
> But I'm attracted to the dark  
> And it was easy to predict  
> You were gonna be the one who broke my heart
> 
> Madonna - Addicted


End file.
